


relax and catch the manic rhapsody

by groundedsaucer (coasterchild)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 90s AU, F/M, First Time, Modern AU, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coasterchild/pseuds/groundedsaucer
Summary: The one where Erik is a phone sex operator.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 105
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's the 90s, Christine and Meg are just two gals trying to make it on Broadway, and Erik works as a sex line operator. I don't pretend to know a darn thing about the 1990s New York theater scene (or the current one for that matter), so if inaccuracies in that regard are a deal breaker for you, turn away now. Also, if you came here looking for intricately plotted, beautifully composed high literature, please continue on your way; this is not your stop. If, however, you're interested in a paper-thin story propping up a fairly decent amount of pornography (and occasional tenderness), congratulations! You have reached your final destination.

Meg had definitely meant it as a joke. It was a gentle dig at Christine’s utter lack of a social life, not an actual suggestion.

So why then did Christine find herself sitting on her bed in her tiny apartment with her phone, winding and unwinding the cord around her finger as she contemplated actually dialing the phone sex line advertised on the flyer laying on her bedside table?

The flyer itself looked like something between an album cover and a romance novel. It featured a shirtless man, muscular and performatively coy, his face obscured by feathers that drifted around him in a cascade. It struck her as surprisingly tasteful, despite the amount of skin on display, like maybe it was advertising a particularly plush brand of down pillows. The words, “The Angel awaits your Pleasure…” were placed in a flowing script above the number and fine print. 

When Meg had handed it to her, she’d said “Chris, I love you, but I am taken, and my girlfriend gets jealous when I hang out with sexually repressed virgins. _Please_ let off a little steam. If not for you, then for me?” 

“I’m not repressed!” Christine had objected, but Meg waved her hand dismissively. 

“No, I’m sorry, you’re just ‘focused on your career’ right now. You don’t have ‘time’ for ‘dating’ because you’re so ‘ _busy_ ’. When was your last audition again?” Each air quote was more sarcastic than the last, and Christine took her point.

“I just.. I wanna feel like I have my feet under me again, okay? Ever since Dad…” she didn’t finish that thought, because they both knew what she meant, and it was easier to not say it, “...and moving out here. It’s a lot!”

Meg nodded and put an arm around her. “I know, babe. You don’t have to. I just worry about you all alone up here, singing to yourself, making ramen for one…”

“I’m doing fine!”

Meg kissed her on the cheek, and grabbed her coat. “Of course you are. Just don’t be frightened by the thought of letting someone else into this fortress of solitude.” She squeezed her hand, and there was the slightest crack in her usual bubbly expression, a glimmer of genuine concern breaking through. “I have to go, let me know how Beauty and the Beast goes?”

“Fingers crossed I get to play a teapot!”

Meg did cross her fingers, and then swept out the door, leaving the flyer behind.

And so, in her pajamas for the night, Christine took a deep breath and dialed. What difference did it make? If she hated it she never had to do it again, and it’s not like anyone would _know_. Well, Meg would probably get it out of her, but no one _else_.

After the second ring, she considered hanging up. It was ridiculous! There was a menu with some simple options, and Christine made her way through it, distracted. Who actually calls a sex line?

She was in the middle of this thought when the click of a receiver interrupted the bland hold menu music, followed by a low, even voice. 

“You’ve reached the Angel’s lair,” there was a pause, and Christine could not think of one single thing to say. The voice, smooth but with a hint of breathiness, continued. “Let your fantasies unwind, caller.”

“Uh…” said Christine, eloquently. 

“Nervous? Is this your first time?”

She wanted to hang up and forget about the whole thing, but his question didn’t seem mocking. He must’ve had nervous first-timers before. 

“Yeah--yes. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”

“We can do anything you like. You can call me Angel. What should I call you?”

“Christine,” she said, and immediately slapped her own forehead. Why would she give him her real name? 

If he noticed her distress, he didn’t let his voice reflect it. He hummed to himself and then, “Christine.” Hearing him say it, she didn’t regret it so much. “That’s a lovely name. What would you like to do, Christine?”

“I don’t even know where to begin, um.” She drew her knees up to her chest, holding the phone closer to her lips as though someone might overhear if she spoke at a normal volume. “What do people usually want?”

“All kinds of things. I can tell you how I want to touch you, or let you tell me how you want to be touched. We can play out a fantasy you’ve had. We can just talk.”

“Hm…” The problem, Christine thought, was that she felt too awkward to be turned on. It was like any remotely sexy thoughts she might have had filed away since puberty were suddenly replaced with blank sheets of paper. What _did_ she like?

“Sometimes,” he continued, sensing her hesitation, “people ask me to sing.”

“Oh…” there was a flutter in her chest. The suggestion surprised her, but at least if he was singing she wouldn’t have to think of anything to say. “Sure, yeah. Can you sing?”

“Of course, my dear. Any requests?”

“Oh, no,” again her mind came up blank. “Whatever you like. A favorite.”

The sounds of shifting could be heard over the line, and then a breath. 

“ _Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care._ ” He started softly, although his voice was so clear, so rich that Christine nearly gasped. It felt as though he was there with her, like she could feel his breath on her skin. “ _You give me fever…_ ”

He carried on, the power of his voice rising with the song. At “ _fever all through the night_ ” there was a deep tint to it, like a growl, tinged with what sounded like desperation. It made Christine feel a little desperate herself.

He sang it through, Christine unable to bear interrupting him. By the end her skin tingled as though each line was a hand caressing her. 

“Are you still there, Christine?” She blinked and shook her head to clear it.

“Oh! Yes, I’m here. That was--” she swallowed, her mouth feeling very suddenly dry. “--that was beautiful.”

There was a smile in his voice, and she liked to imagine it was genuine. “Thank you. Would you like to hear something else? Or perhaps tell me what’s on your mind, now that the ice is broken?”

“I um. I really can’t stop thinking about your voice. Where did you learn--oh, no, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t ask about your life.”

“It’s all right. I’m self taught. Are you a lover of music?”

She let out a small laugh and looked down. “Yeah, music is basically my life. I think I like it more than it likes me, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I go to so many auditions for shows. It’s why I moved here. I’ve barely gotten more than glorified back-up dancer roles in only the most off Off-Broadway so far.”

“It’s a cut-throat business.”

“You’re telling me.” Christine happened to look at the alarm clock next to her bed. Oh _no_ , she was racking up the minutes and--aside from some very, well, stimulating singing--it hadn’t even gotten all that steamy. Even with her First Time Caller discount, she couldn’t justify keeping this up much longer. Part of her wanted to stay on the line all night answering this Angel’s questions and guessing at the man on the other end of the line, but the larger part of her felt foolish, felt _pathetic_ for wanting it.

“Oh, I should let you go.” 

“So soon?” Of course he asks that, she thought. He’s being paid to keep you on the line. 

“Yeah I--Thank you. Really, it was lovely.”

“Of course, and thank you.”

She couldn’t think of how to hang up, so she just said, “Goodbye..?”

“Until next time, Christine.”

He said it like he knew there would be a next time. And again, Christine thought, that’s just the psychology of it. If he expects her to call back, she’ll be more inclined to do it. 

When she hung up and rolled onto her bed, Christine kept hearing that voice in her head. It sounded confident, commanding, but in each line there was the barest hint of vulnerability. It was that quality that made her feel as though he shared the room with her, as though she could feel what it would be to sing those words.

Before drifting off to sleep, Christine touched herself while thinking of that song, and if the orgasm was anything to go by, those few precious minutes had been worth every penny. 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mutual voice kinks are explored.

“You _didn’t_. Oh my god! You did.” Meg leaned over the cafe table conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling with delight. “How was it?”

Christine felt her cheeks turning beet-red, but she leaned in too, speaking more to her coffee mug than her friend. “It was… surprisingly good?”

“Was it hot?” Meg’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively at her. “Did it _awaken_ any hidden desires?” She was teasing, but this was Meg, so she definitely also wanted to know the sordid details.

“It was… We didn’t even really talk about sex.”

“You didn’t talk about sex? On a phone sex line?”

“No, he um. He offered, but I didn’t know what to ask for, and then he mostly… sang for me.”

“He sang for you?”

Christine nodded. 

“I mean this as affectionately as possible, but you are _such_ a nerd.” Christine rolled her eyes. “No, no! It’s great. He sang for you, and you liked it, right? It sounds like he knew exactly how to push your buttons. That’s progress!”

“Progress? Am I a project now?”

“Look, I’m just taking an interest in your future, okay? I don’t know if you’ve seen you lately, but you are, like, _way_ too hot to not have half this town throwing themselves at you. If this Angel guy can light a fire under your ass in that regard, I’m all for it.”

“It feels silly.”

“So what if it’s silly? You paid a hot guy to sing for you. You get paid to sing.”

“In theory.”

“Yeah well, any day now a casting director is gonna take off their blinders and make you a star. Just wait.”

Christine smiled to herself. Meg, even with the teasing, always believed in her, even when Christine didn’t.

“I don’t actually _know_ that he’s hot.”

“He’s got a hot voice though. Same thing, right?”

She thought of the voice again, and a shiver ran down her spine, pooling low in her belly. “Yeah, I guess. It’s not like I’m going to see him anyway.” 

\---

Christine couldn’t sleep. She had an audition the next morning-- _the_ audition: Beauty and the Beast, which she would give an appendage of the casting director’s choice to book--and couldn’t stop obsessing over her song, her clothes, her everything. She didn’t know what else she could do to prepare, but still she paced her room, feeling for all the world like she should be doing _something_.

The flyer, still on her nightstand, caught her eye. Would that be such a bad idea? Meg had an early morning tomorrow, so she didn’t want to bother her with something as mundane as performance jitters, but talking to someone might help.

She took the phone and dialed the number. As it rang, she felt her anxiety shift into something else. She was a little nervous still, but now it was built on a foundation of anticipation. She wanted to hear that voice again.

“You’ve reached the Angel’s Lair…” he said, his tone nearly identical to the first time, Christine noted. 

“I’m not sure if I have any fantasies to unwind this time either.”

The Angel chuckled on the other end, low in his throat. “A return caller. Is that..?”

Christine smiled, feeling silly and girlish. “Christine, yep.”

“Ah, I thought so.” He seemed pleased by this confirmation, and Christine told herself it was just him playing his part. “What can I do for you tonight, Christine?”

Her mouth opened, and then closed. Should she ask him to sing again? Tell him about her day? Actually try out the “sex” part of this phone sex thing? She’d been so preoccupied with hearing him again that she hadn’t given any real thought to what _she_ would actually say.

“I’m, um.” She shrugged, and just let herself talk. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Why do you think that is?”

“It’s silly. It probably won’t amount to anything, but I’ve got an audition tomorrow. It’s for a big show, and if I got it, even a small part, it could be huge for me.”

“Ah, performance anxiety. Not the sort I usually deal with in my line of work, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Christine laughed this time, an almost-squeak that snuck out of her throat. “Yeah. It’s really not as bad as it was when I first got out here, but this could be such a big deal for me. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Of course not, but what makes you think you’ll mess it up?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’ll sing the wrong song, or wear the wrong thing, or I’ll be the wrong height, or one of a hundred other things. I swear, it’s like they’re looking for excuses to pick you apart.”

“You’re the only one in that room you can control. You’re the only one you have to worry about. If they don’t see what they need in you, then you find the show that does.”

Christine sighed and looked down at the carpet under her toes. “That’s easy to say when you’re not staring down three bored strangers who hold your fate in their hands.”

“You don’t need to say it. You need to believe it. You need to _know_ it.”

“I guess,” Chrstine said, fidgeting with her phone cord again. God, she was paying for a pep talk. 

Through the receiver, Christine heard the unmistakable sound of fingers on piano keys. “Angel?” she asked.

Soon the notes coalesced into the opening bars of a song. She was just starting to put together where she’d heard it before when his voice joined in.

“ _Lift up your head, wash off your mascara…_ ” 

Christine smiled to herself. He continued, and she did know the song. It was a sweet little number from a weird little show. She hadn’t seen it on stage, but rented the movie a few years ago. The Angel’s version, while still sweet, wasn’t much like the performance she’d heard. He lent his own depth to the notes, like each one came from deep in his chest.

“ _...I know things were bad but now they're okay..._ ” 

The more he sang, the more she remembered the song, and she realized it was a duet. When he reached the end of his verse, Christine, hardly thinking at all, started in. 

“ _Nobody ever treated me kindly. Daddy left early, mamma was poor…_ ”

Since he had already added his own particular flavor to the song, Christine let herself experiment, showing off a little. She kept on through the rest of the verse, so swept up in it that she hardly noticed when the playing of the piano faltered, and then disappeared entirely. When she expected him to join in for his part, she was met only with silence.

“Angel? Are you still there?”

She heard an exhale of breath, and then, “Yes. Yes, apologies.” He sounded out of sorts. Almost agitated. 

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. It was a duet, so I just assumed?”

“Do _not_ apologize.” He said this forcefully, although it was as though he still worked to steady his breathing. “Christine, your voice is--” He cut himself off, considering his words.  
“--it is stunning.”

Her blush burned in her cheeks. “You probably say that to all the Broadway wannabes who call you.”

“No.” Again, he was gravely serious. The sing-song of his conversational flirtation was stripped away entirely. “Yours is a voice that might--and I do not say this lightly--be truly great.”

She didn’t know what to say to this. The declaration was so earnest. If it was an act, it was a good one. “I--you think so?”

“I do. Tell me, how are you trained?”

“I was in choir all through high school, and before my dad--before he died I took private lessons over the summers. I’ve barely been making ends meet the past couple years, so I haven’t had the money to continue. I would if I could.”

“Would you like a teacher?”

She laughed, one huff through her nose. “You know any good ones who work for free?”

“I would.”

“You--what?”

“Do you have a pen? I’ll give you my personal number. Call me, and I will teach you to use that magnificent instrument of yours to its fullest potential.”

There was no question he had a finely tuned ear. His own voice was as close to perfect as she’d ever heard--and beyond that, he seemed to _feel_ the things he sang in a way that tugged at her chest. She wanted to feel that, too. 

She took his number. 

\---

“Meg! I just got a call back,” Christine all but shouted into her friend’s answering machine. “I think I have a part? In an actual Broadway show? Call me A-S-A-P!!”

Christine walked the length of her small apartment several times, going over and over the conversation with the casting director in her head. They offered her a part! She’d said yes practically before the director finished speaking. 

She had gone into the audition feeling surprisingly at ease. As she waited with all the other hopefuls, most of them warming up their voices, practicing lines, or praying to whomever was listening that day, her mind kept wandering to the night before. She thought of her--the--Angel’s words, his earnest declarations, and his offer to teach her. She waited calmly for her audition, distracted from her nerves by the thought of singing for him again, and of hearing him sing for her. 

And apparently it had worked. The part wasn’t a big one, but it was one of the top shows running right now, so every spot was competitive. And somehow, some way, she’d landed it.

She had to tell someone else. 

She had to tell him. 

She dialed the number he’d given her. There was no menu before it connected to him this time--of course there wasn’t. She wasn’t being charged now. She was just calling… her tutor? Her friend?

It was four rings before he picked up, and Christine had almost resigned herself to calling back another time. 

“Christine,” he said. His voice was warm, but most startlingly it didn’t have the rehearsed quality his previous greetings had. He said her name as though he liked to hear the sound of it. 

“How did you know..?”

“I’ve been waiting for your call. How was your audition?”

The smile tugged at her cheeks. “I got a part.” She tried to keep her voice even, but she knew he could hear her excitement. 

“Good,” he said, his tone neutral, pondering, “that means the people running the show are not complete fools.”

Christine was surprised by this muted response, but she wouldn’t let it temper her happiness.

“It’s nothing much,” she said, obviously believing quite the opposite. “I’m a singing sugar dish and a back-up for one of the village ladies in the first act, but it’s a _real_ show. It’s one of the biggest shows.”

“You should be the lead.”

She rolled her eyes, but a blush still warmed her face. “That’s a nice thought, but I’m setting my sights just a _little_ lower than the stratosphere.”

“Sing for me, and you will be the lead, Christine. I will see it done.”

This gave her pause. It was such a large promise, spoken with the conviction of an oath. She held the phone in silence for a moment, letting it echo in her mind.

It stayed there, but she continued on. “How should we start?”

He asked her to go through her warm-up routine for him, then scales. He noted what she should do differently and coached her as she sang simple melodies throughout her range. 

It was helpful; she could tell already that his ear was benefitting her own. When she followed his instruction, her notes came out clear, they came out steady. He was stern, but he never grew frustrated when she needed help. Instead, his enthusiasm when she picked up a technique or finished an exercise perfectly was--it was almost ecstatic. “Yes,” he would say, sometimes a low rumble in his throat, sometimes exhaled as though the breath were forced from his lungs. “Exactly! Yes.”

“You’ve done incredibly, Christine, but we ought to rest your voice before we push any further I’m afraid. Call me again, tomorrow evening.”

“I will,” she said, her breathing still coming down from their last exercise. “And I’ll rest, but,” she remained standing, her blood still pumping too much for her to relax just yet, “before I go, will you… sing for me?”

This seemed to catch him off guard, which gave Christine only the slightest satisfaction. “I--of course. What would you like to hear?”

“Anything. I haven’t stopped thinking of your voice since that first call,” she said, and immediately regretted it. Was this crossing a line? Did he think of her as his student now? What’s the etiquette when the guy you call for phone sex becomes your voice teacher? “I mean, you don’t have to if--” 

“Shh, save your voice.” She could swear she felt the air on her skin as he shushed her. 

She sat on her bed and did as he asked, staying quiet, and soon his voice came through, soft and delicate at first. She did not recognize the song, but it was beautiful. The words, while not bawdy or obscene, felt as though they caressed her, enveloped her, suspended as they were in the dreamlike melody. 

When his voice rose, so did the imagined press of those caresses. She could see him in her mind, standing behind her, his perfect voice in her ear. His hands--a pianist’s hands, she remembered--moved over her body, and she longed to lean into them. 

It happened so easily she didn’t think to be ashamed, not at the time. He sang and her hand moved between her legs. It felt like a small relief against too great a burden. Her hips rocked into the pressure, and it was as if she did not guide them. She moved agonizingly slowly, keeping with the rhythm of the song. His voice rang out, strong and crisp and exquisite, and it was all she could do to not cry out when her own climax rose to meet it. 

The final bars of the song kept her suspended in the dream as her breathing slowed. The Angel recovered his own rather quickly and then, noting her silence, asked, “Christine? Have I put you to sleep?”

She blinked and switched the phone to her other ear. “No! Not at all.” She straightened her clothes and tried to smooth her hair, although he obviously couldn’t see the state she was in. The state he’d brought her to. “That was gorgeous. What is it from?”

“It’s my own composition.”

Holy _shit_ , he wrote music, too. Of course he did. “Angel… you’re incredible.”

“I’m glad you think so. Now, I’m afraid I must insist that you get some proper rest. I’ll be pushing you harder tomorrow.”

_Push me as hard as you want_ , she thought, but what she said was, “All right. Thank you for this. Goodnight.”

“The pleasure was all mine. Goodnight, Christine.”

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a good time call...

Meg showed up at her apartment a just after 10am, still a little sweaty from her morning rehearsal. She barreled through the door, shoving one of the lattes she carried into Christine’s waiting hands, and then she collapsed on the couch.

“Tell. Me. Everything!” 

Christine, who had spent her morning alternating between practicing her parts for _Beauty_ and day-dreaming about her voice lessons the previous night, blinked at her. “Everything?”

“Everything about the audition! Did you blow them away? Did any of them openly weep?”

Christine laughed and sat in the poorly disguised lawn chair that passed for additional seating in her apartment. “I wouldn’t go that far. But there were _so_ many people. I really thought I had no chance.” 

Meg’s smile lit up her face, her eyes glittering with pride. “But you got it.”

“I got it.” 

Meg let out a shriek of excitement, and Christine joined her, irritated neighbors be damned. 

“It’s really a small part. I’m essentially a piece of background dishware.”

“But that’s just for now. When they see what you can do, you know you’re gonna be top billing in no time.” she glanced at Christine, fiddling with the lid of her cup. “And hey, if they have any openings for dancers…”

Christine eyed her suspiciously. “It’s not a ballet, Meg.”

“Hence the appeal.”

“You’re branching out?”

“Mom won’t hear a word about it, but I’ve been going to contemporary dance classes on my off nights. Ballet is so competitive, and like, so mean? If you’re not perfect, you’re garbage, and--you know my mom. There’s no room for anything else. Plus everyone assumes she gets me all my gigs, and I hate it.”

Meg had been practicing her plié and her pirouette since before she could even pronounce the words. Ballet had--in no small part thanks to her mother, the renowned Mrs. Giry--been her life.

“That’s awesome, Meg. Really. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” 

Meg looked as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Seriously though, don’t tell my mom. I’m gonna wait until I actually book something. I’m honestly more freaked out about this than I was telling her I’m a lesbian.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Straightening her back, Meg kicked her feet up on Christine’s scuffed up coffee table. “So, we need to celebrate. Drinks tonight?”

The Angel’s voice echoed in her head. _Call me again._

“Oh, I can’t.”

“They don’t have you rehearsing already do they?”

“No, no, I um. Have voice lessons?”

Meg cocked an eyebrow. “Since when are you taking voice lessons?”

Christine knew she was turning bright red, and that only stoked Meg’s curiosity.

“So, you remember that um. Sex line?”

Widening her eyes, Meg leaned forward. “Yes…”

“Well, the other night he was singing, and the song was a duet, so I join in and, well? He liked my voice, I guess? And he offered to give me lessons.”

Her mouth fell open. “Your. Phone sex guy. Is giving you voice lessons? Is he still charging by the minute?”

“Oh! No, he gave me his personal number. He doesn’t charge me at all. He’s really incredible. I already learned so much from one session.”

It was Meg’s turn to blink at Christine. “This guy loved your voice so much he’s tutoring you for free? That’s either incredibly sweet or incredibly creepy.”

“He’s very serious about it! And like, we haven’t actually had real… phone sex.”

“What!! You’ve called this guy how many times and he hasn’t even gotten you off?”

“Only twice for the sex line thing, and--I didn’t say _that_.”

The look on Meg’s face was one of sudden and surprised fascination. “Hold on, back up. He _has_ gotten you off? But not with dirty talk?”

Christine tried to hide behind her coffee cup. “Look, when I say he has an incredible voice…”

“ _Christine!_ You _nerd_. You horny little nerd.”

“I don’t think he even knows what it does to me. God. Should I feel bad?”

Meg put down her cup and clasped her hands together. “I’m sure he would not be offended. If _I_ had the ability to make a girl cum by singing showtunes I’d be bragging to anyone who would listen.”

Christine chewed at her lip, reassured but not entirely convinced. 

“Besides, I’d bet good money that your voice has a similar effect on him.”

The thought of her Angel on the other end of the line, imagining her voice as she did his, made her heart beat just that much faster. 

“Oh, you _want_ him to be into your voice like that.” Her smile was positively menacing. “You’ve got it bad.” She paused, thinking. “What’s this guy’s name?”

“I, um. I just call him Angel?”

“Mmm, a mysterious, sexy-voiced Romeo to sweep you off your little music nerd feet. How romantic.” Her words were teasing, but she was enjoying this thrilling addition to Christine’s social life. 

“I don’t know what it is right now,” and that was true. She wasn’t even sure, exactly, what she wanted it to be. 

\---

When she called him that night she hadn’t intended it to be anything beyond a lesson. They ran through her warm-ups, and her Angel wasn’t kidding when he said he would push her harder. He brought her to the edge of her range and coached her to move just beyond it, always taking care not to damage her voice in the attempt. She sang things she had not dared to, had not dreamed to before. 

By the end of the lesson, she felt wrung out. She almost didn’t want to speak, for fear that it would break the spell of his teaching, that all she learned would escape with her words.

“That’s all I have for you tonight.”

Christine closed her eyes and gripped the phone tighter. Part of her told her not to say anything, that it would only ruin what they had, but the better part of her felt she must be honest with him.

If another part, however small, urged her to speak just to see where it might lead and thrilled at the possibilities, she did not acknowledge it.

“I want to ask you to sing for me again.”

“Of course, just say--”

“I want to ask, but before I do I want you to know. Um. I want you to know how it makes me feel.”

There was a pause, and Christine tried to think of how to abandon this whole thing before making any more a fool of herself. 

“And how is that?” He didn’t sound arrogant, not exactly. He sounded measured, just maybe hopeful.

“If this is crossing a boundary, I never have to bring it up again,” she said in a rush.

“Tell me.”

“Your voice turns me on so much I can hardly think straight. When you sing, I mean.” She cringed. “I’m sorry--this is--you’ve been nothing but professional.”

“There is no need for you to apologize, Christine.” Again, when he said her name it sounded like he savored it. 

“You’re not weirded out?”

“Setting aside my profession, and the fact that I do have an artistic appreciation for your abilities, no. I would be happy to sing for you if your own appreciation were purely professional, or merely aesthetic, but if it is more than that,” the slightest pause, and she pictured a tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I shall enjoy it all the more.”

Relieved, Christine laid back on her bed. “Good… I just didn’t want to be hiding that from you.”

“May I tell you something then?”

“Oh! Of course.”

“I find your voice irresistible.” 

“Oh…” her heart pounded in her chest, jolted from the relief of her own confession by the implication of his.

“I dream of it, and of you.” He wasn’t singing, not quite, but the tone of his voice held that same confidence, that same _feeling_ that she found so affecting.

“Angel,” she sighed, and her legs pressed together, searching for a pressure that wasn’t there.

“I see my hands on you, tracing that beautiful, talented throat. You whisper your want into my ear, and I touch you where you ask for it.”

“Yes,” Christine breathed, and her own hand grazed her neck. 

“Where do you want my hands, Christine?” 

She let her own touch move downward, reaching under her loose sleeping shirt. “My--my chest.”

“I cup your breasts, grazing your pointed nipples with my thumb. I can feel your chest rising to meet me as your breathing quickens. I want to put my mouth on you.”

“ _Please_ ,” she whined into her empty apartment, her eyes shut tight so she could imagine him above her.

“I press my lips to your neck, lavishing it with attention, sucking at your delicate skin. I move down your body until I take one of those rosy peaked nipples into my mouth. My teeth brush it gently, my hand kneads at the soft flesh surrounding it. I’m pulling you close, hungry for you.”

Christine’s hand followed his narration as instruction, squeezing and pinching herself until she let out a soft, high little cry of desire.

“I want to touch you, Angel.”

“Please do,” and his voice had lost some of its composure, but Christine found it all the more intoxicating.

“I want to touch your chest. I want--I want to hold your hands against me. I want to press my body against yours.”

“I’m hard for you, Christine. I’m straining against my pants with my want for you.” Was that a part of their fiction, or a confession? With the performative tint draining from his voice, Christine couldn’t be sure, and she wondered if the line had ever been so clear to begin with.

“I want you, too.” Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her shorts. A blush rose in her cheeks, but she pressed on. “I’m wet for you.”

He groaned at that, and Christine imagined him touching himself. 

“I travel down your body. My hands hold your hips and my head ducks between your thighs. I want to taste you so badly. Your scent makes me ravenous. May I?”

Her finger, already slick, brushed over her folds and she imagined it was his breath. “Oh, please. _Please._ ”

“I do, and you’re ambrosia. You’re an elixir and my tongue is greedy. My lips envelop your clit and I suck at it, lap at it. I pull you hard against my mouth, and let your hips ride me, guide me to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, Angel, yes,” and Christine rode her hand, imagining it was her Angel’s face. 

“I reach down to grasp myself. I can’t help it.” He paused, and then that smooth, deep singing voice came through the line, the edges of the words only starting to become ragged. “ _You give me fever_...”

The noise Christine made fell somewhere between a laugh and a moan, helpless and desperate. “I want--”

“Tell me, Christine. Let me please you.”

“I want you inside me.” Her hand stilled. some part of her worried that she had somehow taken this too far, that now he would draw back from her. 

Instead, he sighed with a relief that came from deep in his chest. “Yes, yes, let me,” he said, and this time Christine could swear she heard movement coming from his end of the line. His breathing grew more ragged as he continued. “I pull you to the edge of the bed. Your pussy shines wet and waiting for me; my cock is leaking for you.”

The obscenity sent another surge down through Christine’s belly, and her hips tried in vain to rise to meet him. “Please, I want it. I want _you_.”

“I line myself up with your entrance, teasing you, teasing myself with that slick wetness against the tip of my cock.” Christine’s fingers followed suit, and she let out short breathy moans which each barely-there touch.

“I press into you, and your body welcomes me, it _holds_ me tight as I push further.” 

Christine slid a finger inside herself, and she knew it wasn’t her Angel, it wasn’t _enough_ , but still it felt like heaven. 

“When I’m in to the hilt I rock my hips against you. I wrap my hands around your waist and I thrust, in and out of you.”

“Yes, yes,” Christine muttered mindlessly. Her fingers worked more and more quickly, matching, she realized, the increasingly rapid breathing of her Angel in her ear. “Mmmh, you feel so good. You’re _perfect_.”

He groaned suddenly, punctuated with a rough exhale. “Oh Christine,” and then he was catching his breath “Hell--”

Christine’s eyes widened, her fingers faltered. “Did you…”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, still recovering. “I couldn’t help myself.” 

Imagining her--imagining the two of them together--had pushed him over the edge. The thought sent a thrill through Christine.

“Do you mind if I…?” 

“Oh Christine, if I were there I would not keep my hands off you. I would pet you and stroke you until you trembled beneath my touch.” Her hand picked up where it had left off. 

“I would continue tirelessly until you had your fill. Are you touching yourself now, Christine?”

“Yes, yes, I’m close.”

“It’s my hand touching you. It’s my hand coaxing the pleasure from your body as you writhe, awash with it. I’m touching you exactly the way you like, and the only thing you need to do is lie back and let it take you.”

“Oh, oh-- _Angel_ ,” and she cried out as her orgasm did take her. She felt like it swept her out to sea, and her Angel murmuring her name was the rhythm of the waves bouying her, eventually leading her back to shore. 

Christine wasn’t sure how many minutes passed as she lay there, her breathing returning to something approaching normal.

“If your voice didn’t need rest before, it certainly does now.”

She smiled at the receiver. All of her limbs felt loose. “Still, this session was… productive.”

“Mmm, I should say so. Goodnight, Christine.”

“Goodnight, Angel.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> showtunes and chill.

Meg met her at the stage door after her first rehearsal. 

“Oh, miss, can I get your autograph?” she teased.

Christine snorted and bumped her shoulder into her affectionately. “I’m sure everyone will be clamoring for a signature from ‘Village Woman #1’”

“What happened to the singing sugar dish?”

“Oh, hah! I’ve actually been bumped up. Not because of anything I did, but the woman who was playing my new part broke her ankle yesterday, I guess?”

Meg winced. Leg injuries were a source of frequent nightmares for her. “Well, good for you at least?”

Christine shrugged. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’d rather get the part because they thought I was good enough.”

“Hey, they _did_ think you were good enough. You were already her back-up, right? They couldn’t just fire her and give you her spot, but they knew you could do it.”

Christine smiled, still feeling a little guilty, but heartened just the same. “Where would I be without your pep talks, Meg?”

Meg wrapped an arm around Christine’s waist. “Hey, pep talk nothing. I’m just trying to get it through that,” she jabbed at her forehead with one pointed finger, “thick skull of yours that your _talent_ was never in question. You just need the right people to see it.”

“Hah, well, a few more accidents and I’m sure I’ll be playing the lead in no time!”

Meg laughed. “That’s the spirit! Come on, let’s get some take out and you can tell me all the hot Broadway gossip you’re now privy to.”

\---

“It was just a freak accident. The heel of her shoe gave out as she was going down the stairs, and now she has to stay off it for 6 weeks minimum. Probably won’t be able to fully perform on it until next year. I feel awful for her.”

Her Angel hummed thoughtfully. “Regardless, you’re one step closer to where you deserve to be.”

Christine’s feelings twisted somewhere in her stomach. She _did_ feel bad for the other performer, but it’s not as if she was going to turn down the job just because she got it by accident. 

“Anyway, with this part I’ve even got a solo line. It’s not much, but would you go over it with me?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice warm.

The lesson was short that evening, since rehearsals and eventually actual performances would be demanding enough on their own. Neither of them made any move to repeat their after-hours performance from the last time, and Christine almost regretted its absence, but even she had to admit she needed rest.

“I wish we could do these lessons in person,” she sighed.

“I admit, I have often wished the same.”

“Why can’t we? You’re in the city, right? Your number is local.”

The silence on the other end was deafening. She was going to ask if he’d been disconnected when, finally, he spoke. “It is better this way. Call me again tomorrow.”

\---

Her first performance as the illustrious Village Woman #1 went off without a hitch. Christine’s cast-mates, knowing how nervous she’d been, congratulated her after the curtain call and invited her out to post-performance drinks.

Christine told them maybe, but what she’d been thinking of since she’d walked off stage was calling her Angel. She wanted to tell him how well it had gone, how much his lessons had helped her. She wanted to hear the pleasure in his voice at her success. 

She was back in her street clothes, just stepping through the stage door--long after the stars had left and the fans that awaited them had cleared out--when a familiar voice called out to her. Her heart leapt at the sound before she could place it. 

“Christine! I thought that was you!”

She turned, a smile already spreading across her face. Sure enough, standing before her in a white blazer, under a mop of artfully styled golden hair, stood her old friend.

“Raoul! It’s been so long! What are you doing here?”

He looked to the side, lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m kind of an investor in the show.” His modesty was not altogether convincing.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my _god_ , Raoul. I knew you were doing well but not ‘investing in Broadway shows’ well.”

He smiled his winning smile, and there was just enough of his boyish charm to keep it from tipping over into arrogance.

“My money guy says I should diversify, and I wasn’t so sure until now.” He took Christine’s hand, squeezed it. “You were incredible up there.”

She blushed, squeezed him back. “You’re too nice. I have like one line.”

“And yet you stole the show! Chrissy, it’s been way too long. We have to catch up. I have a quick meeting,” he pointed back to the building she’d just emerged from, “with the producers, but after that we could go out?”

“Oh, Raoul, I’d love to, but can I take a raincheck? It’s already late and I hardly slept last night as it is.”

He sighed dramatically. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t learned to live a little.”

“Another time, seriously!” and she meant it. She _was_ excited to see her friend, but she’d had enough excitement for one day. The show went well. She’d go to bed, tell Meg all about it in the morning, and then she’d make time to catch up with Raoul. _After you call your Angel_ , a voice in the back of her mind reminded her.

“All right, all right. I’ll hold you to that. Here,” and he pulled a card from inside his jacket pocket and scrawled a number on the back, handing it to Christine. “My cell phone number. Call me anytime.”

“I will,” she said, and pulled him into a hug. His arms wrapped around her, strong and steady as she remembered, and she was tempted to go out with him after all.

When she let him go, he held her hand and bowed dramatically. “Mademoiselle, until we meet again,” and he kissed her knuckles. She giggled and curtsied for him before he turned to leave, heading back through the door she’d just emerged from. She watched him go with more than a little fondness.

When the door closed behind him, Christine hiked her bag further up on her shoulder and continued towards the street. As she reached the corner of the building she heard a voice--soft but unmistakable--behind her. 

“Christine,” it called. She turned to look, half thinking she imagined it, when a figure emerged into the streetlight. He wore a tuxedo, a proper one with tails and a white bow-tie. He wore a hat that shadowed his face, but she could make out the edge of what looked like a masquerade mask. 

She was stuck, frozen. From the single word he’d uttered, she was certain: the voice belonged to her Angel. “It’s you,” she said, and she feared if she blinked he might disappear back into the darkness.

“I couldn’t miss your debut.” He took another step toward her. “You were magnificent.” 

“You saw it?”

“Every moment.”

“Oh,” and her heart raced to think of him, somewhere in the audience, watching her. She was almost glad she didn’t know before; it might’ve worsened her nerves. 

He held out a hand. “Come with me, Christine.”

She took it.

\---

Christine did not take notice of the route they took, preoccupied as she was by simply looking at him. Seeing that the voice she’d heard so many nights came from a real flesh-and-blood man. She’d known it, but seeing the truth of it before her was more striking than she’d imagined. He hardly spoke as he drove, and she found herself too entranced by his presence to fill the silence herself. 

His face, what she saw of it, was handsome. He was older than her, certainly, but it was hard to say by how much. He cut a striking figure in his suit, perfectly tailored and worn with absolute confidence. He had removed the hat before getting in the car, and his straight black hair shined under the streetlights. 

At a stoplight, he reached out to grasp her hand. “You exceeded my expectations.”

It felt as though she only existed where he touched her, where his eyes bore into her. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your lessons.”

The hint of a smile curled his lip where it disappeared beneath the mask. He pressed a kiss to her hand, the light changed, and they continued into the night.

They arrived at a building Christine did not recognize on a street she didn’t know. Her Angel swept her inside quickly, as though evading prying eyes. It occurred to her distantly that she did not, in any meaningful sense of the word, know this man. Still, she followed, pulled to him like a falling star to earth.

Once inside--his apartment? Penthouse? She couldn’t tell how much space it took up, only that it was a large, dimly lit maze of rooms.--he took her bag, placing it on a table near the door. His hands then hovered at her shoulders. “May I?” He asked. She nodded, and he took her sweater, hanging it near her bag. 

The fabric of her shirt--loose and almost translucently white--felt suddenly thin in the heavy air. He stared at her, his face inscrutable. She trembled, and told herself it was a chill. 

“Come,” he said finally, and gestured for her to follow him into a large living room. He sat at a grand piano, and she stood next to it, facing him. 

He began playing, and she recognized the tune from earlier that evening. It was one of the songs from the show: A duet, between Belle and the Beast.

She knew from the way he looked at her, encouragingly, hopefully, that he wanted her to sing. 

“ _There's something sweet, and almost kind_ ” she began, and her Angel’s eyes fell closed as he swayed, his playing never faltering.

For the Beast’s part, her Angel sang, and the clarity of it, the power of his voice without the inadequacies of the phone line to degrade it, was overwhelming. Christine braced herself against the piano.   
The song normally featured a break for dialogue, but her Angel spoke to her instead. 

“Do not feel as though you must imitate Ms. Giudicelli. Your Belle is the only one you can bring to that stage, the only one worth anything.” Hearing the name of their company’s leading lady broke her reverie somewhat. He had been at the show, likely saw her name in the playbill, but still it struck Christine as odd that he would bring her up.

She nodded, and he skipped ahead in the song, blending it seamlessly until it was her turn to sing again. 

She finished out the short verse, this time letting the song guide her. Again he changed the tune, this time enough that the final bars drifted the song to an end. The two of them looked at one another as the last note faded. 

“Incredible,” he said, and stood. He approached her and, in a smooth motion, reached for her throat. It sent a jolt through Christine, that earlier anxiety returning to her in sharp focus, but he didn’t touch her. He looked, his fingers traced the air around her neck, under her chin, but then he drew back. He pulled a small folder from the music stand of his piano and handed it to her. “For you.”

She opened it, and inside was a song. The notes were bold and complex. The words were seductive. “Is this… one of yours?”

“It is. Will you sing it with me?”

“Of course,” and this time when he sat down to play, she took a step closer.

The song was unlike anything she’d heard. It was another duet, the two parts wrestling for control of the song only to ultimately succumb to one another. 

Her voice was unsure at first, and she did her best to follow the music and her Angel’s lead, but as they sang, she acclimated to the rhythm, the push and pull of it. Her Angel watched her so closely, the scrutiny intimidating and thrilling at once. By the end, she felt exhilarated, triumphant. 

Her Angel, it seemed, felt the same. “You are everything I dared to hope. More.”

Christine approached the bench where he sat and dropped onto it, her legs facing out where his faced in. She studied his face, and this time he was frozen. Her proximity, close enough that she could hear the soft huffs of breath from his nose, seemed to stun him. 

“Angel…” she breathed, and her hand rose to touch the edge of his mask.

His hand, previously stuck at his side, shot up to catch her wrist. He held it tightly, his eyes widening but never leaving hers. “

“Please, I--” he lowered her arm, “My name is Erik.”

She smiled. “Erik… and here I’d gotten so used to calling you Angel.”

“You can call me that still, if you would prefer.”

“No, no. I like Erik. I like knowing it.” Her hand drifted towards his chin this time, avoiding actually touching the mask. “Why do you wear this?”

He did look away from her now. His eyes searching for an answer he struggled to provide.

“I’m afraid my face would not have the same effect upon you that my voice does, Christine.”

Her eyebrows drew together. Could it be so terrible? The rest of him looked perfectly fine--more than fine. The corner of his lip, before it disappeared beneath its shroud, did seem a little askew, but otherwise she could not imagine what could possibly be so upsetting. She studied him for some understanding, but only found wounded eyes staring back at her. 

“You--You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. But I’m not afraid.”

His mouth did turn up at that, but the chuckle he let out was a humorless one. “Perhaps someday.”

He turned in his seat so that he faced her more completely. “You’ve been very accommodating of my whims; tell me, can I play something for you? Sing?” As he said the last word his eyes seemed to grow darker, or perhaps the tint was only in his voice. 

Christine thought about it, and she _did_ want to hear him sing again, sing for her, but she also wanted--

Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. He let out a high, shocked sound, and Christine worried she might have read his intentions all wrong. She began to pull back, but immediately felt him reach for her. One of his arms wrapped around her waist as the other rose to cup her jaw. At this she deepened the kiss, letting her tongue dart out to taste his. The mask made it awkward, limiting how she might tilt her head, but he groaned low in his throat and she didn’t care. 

Breaking the kiss, Christine pulled away. Erik looked back at her, utterly dazed, his fingers curled tightly around the thin fabric of her shirt. 

“Ang--Erik, can we--” her nerves caught the words before she could speak them.

He regained his senses and tipped his chin down, looking up at her with an entirely new mischief in his eyes. “Let your fantasies unwind, caller.” 

She laughed, but the reminder of that first call did something to her. Here was that voice she’d clung to on the phone, here in the flesh, where she could touch him. Where he could touch her. 

“I want you,” she said, because it was true. 

His eyes fell shut for a moment, and then he stood. Christine took his hand when he held it out to her, and he pulled her against him, leading them, like a few steps of a dance, until her back was pressed against the side of the piano. He held her face in both his hands, tipping her head up, and then kissed her hungrily. 

Christine wasted no time in returning it, and she slid her own hands under his jacket, around his waist, holding him fast. As their faces pressed together more fervently, his mask was jostled, tipping up just so his mouth was fully exposed. He pulled back, straightening it hurriedly. 

“It’s okay,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “I didn’t see,” although a part of her wished that she had. 

He stared down at her, tension in his neck and written across the half of his forehead that she could see. 

“Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into one of the rooms. As she watched him go, Christine’s curiosity tugged at her. 

When he returned he held what appeared to be a long black necktie. She gave him a questioning look. 

He held it up in both hands, and with a gentleness and utterly naked hope on his face, covered Christine’s eyes. 

She drew back, looking at him. “You want to blindfold me?” Again, that distant worry, that reasonable, practical part of her mind tried to tell her no. 

“Please, Christine. Trust me. I will never hurt you.” 

She stared at him, too nervous to say yes and too--too entranced by him, by his closeness, to say no. 

He pressed the fabric over her eyes, wrapping it around her head twice and tying it off at the back, and she made no move to stop him. 

She couldn’t see anything beyond a hazy shifting of light where the cloth met her skin. His fingers brushed her jaw, and she startled. He pressed his hand to her more firmly and leaned forward to speak into her ear. 

“You have nothing to fear from me. Trust me as you have trusted my lessons. Trust me as you did when you came here.” He took her hand and pressed it to the side of his mask. His hand over hers, his thumb curled under its edge, and Christine felt the mask come off. 

Christine tried to touch the flesh beneath it, to feel what she couldn’t see, but Erik held her wrist in a vice grip.

“Let me please you, Christine.”

Biting her lip, Christine nodded, and Erik’s hands were on her. He worked at the buttons of her shirt, and she reached back to brace herself against the piano. 

When he’d opened her shirt down to her waist, the cool air on her skin giving her goosebumps, he caught her mouth in another kiss. It migrated to her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck. Christine made a helpless little sound as his lips pressed lightly, teasingly against her throat. She reached out blindly, clutching at his jacket and pulling him closer. 

With the blindfold, this wasn’t so unlike their late night calls. She could only imagine what he looked like, pressed against her, but now she could _feel_ him, could feel more than her own imitating touch on her skin. 

“Tell me,” she said, a little desperately, “tell me what you want to do.”

He made a low, guttural sound and pressed his face into the space where her neck met her shoulder. “Everything,” he said, muffled against her hair but so close it sounded like it came from inside her. 

She didn’t know what _everything_ entailed, but each image that came to mind made her dizzy with want. 

“Me too,” she murmured, and Erik peeled her shirt off completely. He cupped her breasts over her bra, kneading them gently, tentatively. Christine reached back and unlatched the clasp, wriggling her shoulders until the straps fell down her arms. Erik let it fall, and Christine knew she was exposed, but found that the blindfold lessened the nervousness she might have felt. She couldn’t feel his gaze on her, only his hands, and his hands made her feel bold. 

She felt along the seams of his jacket, eventually finding his lapels and tugging at them. “If I can’t see you, at least let me touch you.”

Erik paused as though indecisive. Finally he pulled away, and Christine could hear the quiet sounds of fabric rustling against itself. She stood, resisting the urge to reach out, test how close he actually was. 

When he returned, her palms were greeted by the bare flesh of his chest. She explored him, his shoulders, his arms, his abdomen down to the waistband of his pants. He shuddered under her hands, but otherwise stood unmoving, letting her caress him where she pleased. He was peppered with hair, although much of him was smooth, almost hot to the touch. She was careful not to go higher than his neck, and still when her hands moved in that direction he tensed under her fingers. She realized the blindfold was not just a trust exercise for her, but for him as well. She could take it off at any time, know what he hid, but she had silently agreed not to. Whatever had been under that mask, Erik feared her seeing it, and yet he wanted this badly enough that he risked it.

As her touch grew needier, more aimless, Erik drew closer, and his own hands fell to her waist. He worked at the fly of her jeans, opening it enough that he could reach in and press her through her underwear. His fingers, a little unsure but deft all the same, shifted the rapidly dampening fabric over her sensitive flesh, and Christine stifled a cry.

He kissed her again, tasting the little sounds she made as he teased her. He pulled back, still close enough that she felt his breath on her lips. “Let go, Christine. Trust me to catch you, so that you might soar.”

Her hips moved of their own accord against his touch. “Please… more,” she said, the desperation in her voice only tempered by the knowledge that he would give it to her.

He tugged her pants down her hips, bending to lift each leg out of them, and then repeated the process, agonizingly slowly, with her underwear. Christine expected his hand to return to its previous position, but instead he reached behind her, adjusting something on the piano. By the time she realized he had lowered the lid, he was holding her by the waist and lifting her onto it. 

She sat atop the instrument he’d played so beautifully, displayed and awaiting those same skilled ministrations. He pulled her to the edge, far enough that she had to lean back on her hands to keep her balance. Parting her legs, Erik settled himself between them. He lifted one by the knee, planting small kisses up her thigh, and then rested it on his shoulder. His fingers teased at her folds, spreading the slickness around until Christine felt like she might scream if he didn’t give her more.

“Please, _please_ ,” she muttered mindlessly until interrupted by the low groan from Erik as his mouth enveloped her clit. His tongue dragged over the sensitive flesh, and Christine’s cry--of relief, of aching need--contrasted his only in pitch. 

She resisted the urge to grasp at his scalp, to encourage his movements so directly, and instead clutched his hand where it curled around her thigh. His mouth worked tirelessly, and she couldn’t help but move with him, arching into the graze of his tongue. The muffled sounds he made, hungry moans and ragged breathing, only amplified each sensation. 

“Oh-- _oh_. _Yes!_ ” she all but shouted, and it was like it had been with his voice coming through the phone line, only _more_. Even without her sight, everything she felt came into sharper focus--time seeming to stretch so that she might fully experience every note, every cymbal crash of sensation--and his tongue moved over her, unrelenting, until the final waves of her orgasm crested and subsided. 

She fell back onto the piano until her breathing steadied. Erik’s hands still clutched her, and his face--the side that hadn’t been covered by the mask, she noted--rested against her thigh. 

When she sat up again, reaching out to caress his forearm, she felt him shift to look at her. 

“Let me,” she said, and hoped it was enough. 

Erik lifted her again, this time one arm under her knees and the other cradling her shoulders, and he placed her on the piano bench. It was more cushioned than the lid had been, the leather soft under her skin. 

She sat and reached out for him, finding his hips in front of her, just a bit below eye level. Her fingers snaked under the waistband, and Erik gasped softly at the touch. She fumbled at the fly, trying to make sense of it by feel alone. 

Finally she tilted her head up towards where she guessed his face to be, smiling a bit sheepishly. “A little help?”

When he responded it was like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding since her hands had met his skin. “Of course--”

He opened his pants, and Christine brushed his hands aside, again feeling emboldened. She felt his erection straining against the fabric of his underwear, and she dragged her fingers over it, drawing a pained gasp from Erik above her. 

Christine took that as encouragement and tugged his pants down his hips. Grasping his--his _cock_ in one hand, she started stroking experimentally up and down its length. Erik groaned, and Christine tightened her grip. Her thumb traced over the head, finding a small pool of wetness at the tip. She quickened her pace, and after a few moments Erik grabbed her suddenly, stilling her hand.

“Christine, please. I fear I will not--” He guided her hand away from him and shuddered at the loss, “--last if you keep up like that.”

Was it possible that her touch was so overwhelming to him? Possible that, despite his commanding demeanor, he wasn’t any more accustomed to this than she was? The thought shifted something within her, something she could not identify, but did nothing to quiet her desire for him. 

Erik took her face in his hands and bent down, kissing her. Holding her close, he broke the kiss and said, “Let me fuck you, Christine.”

She couldn’t find her voice to respond, but she nodded at him. He drew back, and Christine could hear him walking a short distance, and then, only because the room otherwise was deadly silent, the sound of plastic or foil, some kind of packaging. 

Erik returned and took her hand, guiding it back to his erection, still hard and aching for her, but now she could feel latex running down its length.

A condom. She felt suddenly grateful, but also foolish. She’d been so caught up in everything that she hadn’t even _thought_ \-- but he had, and now Erik guided her to lay back on the bench. 

Moving smoothly into the space between her parted legs, his cock brushed over her clit, then further down, gathering her own moisture on its tip before pausing at her entrance. 

Her hips rose to beg for him, and soon she uttered pleas to match. “Please, yes,” she sighed, and Erik finally did press into her, arduously slow, stilted by his own sharp breath. When he was completely inside her, he froze, his hands on her hips trembling with effort. 

“You feel incredible,” he said, and finally, _finally_ began to move in her, slow at first, but Christine yelped with the first rapid thrust. Her hand reached out for anything to steady her, to give her some leverage to return the pumping of his hips, and it came down with a cacophony on the keys of the piano at her side. 

Erik stilled once more. “Are you--”

“ _Please_ keep going,” was all she managed, and--

“Oh, Christine,” he moaned and moved within her once more. His hands wandered as he built up a steady rhythm. Her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, he explored her as though he were the one in a blindfold, trying desperately to map the planes of her body as it was before him. He leaned forward, bracing himself over her on the bench, and touched her face gently. Christine let herself be swallowed by the feeling of it, of him, enveloping her. 

His thrusts grew quicker, more desperate. “I’m going to--I’m nearly--”

“Yes,” Christine gasped, and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Let go.”

He came undone above her, the cry he let out in his final, frantic thrusts was ragged, almost animal. She held him with her legs, savoring the sensation of him inside her just a little longer. 

When she did it, she was hardly thinking. It felt completely natural, as they both came down from their sex-drunk stupor, for her to slip her fingers under the blindfold and tip it up, like one might remove their jacket when getting home. 

She realized her mistake immediately, but it was not quick enough. She caught a glimpse of his face. The flesh was twisted at his cheekbone, seeming to tug the skin around it into a painful grimace. He was nearly bald, and the side of his head was mangled like a terrible, scarred wound. Before she could stop herself, she gasped, and his eyes met hers.

“No-- _NO_ ,” he bellowed and shoved her back, clambering away from her, his hand covering what it could of his face.

“Erik, I didn’t-- it’s o--”

“You-- _no!_ ” The look in his eyes was that of panic, of terror. Before she could stop him, he disappeared into one of his rooms, slamming the door behind him. 

Christine sat in stunned silence. When it was clear Erik had no intention of emerging, she stood, took his jacket where it hung over the back of a chair to cover herself, and approached the door. 

She knocked, and when that got no response, called out to him. “Erik, it’s all right. I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking.” She tested the door handle, but it wouldn’t turn. “I didn’t mean to look.”

Christine jumped as a loud crash came from the room, followed by a yell--or, no. It was more of a wail. She pressed her ear against the door, and heard the soft sound of muffled sobs. 

She felt terrible, but beyond that had no idea what to do. She didn’t want to leave him, and to that point, she didn’t even know exactly where she was. If she left now, she’d maybe find a cab that could get her back home, but she didn’t know the neighborhood at all, and the thought of being out alone--after all of this--made her blood run cold. 

Christine let Erik be in his room. She found a bathroom, washed up, and gathered her clothes from where they’d been strewn on the floor. Once she was dressed, she laid down on his sofa, her mind reeling with all that had happened. Even as tears stung her eyes, arousal would flood her belly at the thought of him touching her. The stage, the theater, her Broadway debut earlier that night all felt like another world, shinier and simpler than this one. Eventually exhaustion took her and she drifted to sleep, hoping as she did that he would come out and they might repair what had gone so wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

When she awoke, she noticed first the sense of movement, a gently rhythmic swaying that tried to tempt her back to sleep. Then it was the humming of an engine, and the realization that she was not in a bed, or curled up on a couch, or anything like it. She opened her eyes groggily, and took in the passenger’s side of Erik’s car. Her bag was propped on her side, acting as a pillow. 

She sat up, stretching to ease the stiffness in her neck. When she looked at Erik his eyes darted back to the road, his fingers curling tighter around the wheel.

“Ah, you’re up.”

Christine rubbed at her eyes. It was still early enough in the morning--7, maybe 8am. Her memories of the night before, almost too much to fit in such a small window of time, came flooding back to her. She studied his face, what she could see of it, at least. His mask was back, of course, and more than that his expression was again inscrutable to her.

“Oh, yeah, I’m a pretty heavy sleeper once I’m out,” she said, hoping that some harmless topic might help her gauge his mood. 

“Tell me where I should drop you.”

Christine blinked at him. “Um, the theater, I guess. I can get the train from there.” She reached out and rested her hand tentatively on his arm. “Don’t you think we should talk about last night?”

“It was a foolish mistake,” he said, and his jaw clenched as if to stop him from saying more.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I should not have shown--I should not have brought you to my home, and you were a fool to come. It puts our working relationship in jeopardy, and nothing must take precedence over your success, Christine.”

She stared at him. A mistake? _She_ was a fool? 

“That doesn’t even make sense. How does that--the two of us seeing each other put anything at risk?”

“You don’t understand. You need focus. We both do.”

Staring forward, she folded her arms in front of her. “I am focused.” She looked back at him, her face softening. “What is this really about? Did we go too fast last night? Is it--I’m sorry I took off the blindfold, I really wasn’t thinking. I’m so--”

“Don’t.” His voice was firm in a way he hadn’t been with her before. There was a flare of anger in his eyes that made the interior of the car seem suddenly very small. “Don’t think of it. We’ll resume your lessons as before. When you are a star, you will understand.”

They spent the rest of the drive in silence. He dropped her at the theater as she’d requested, and before she got out of the car his hand reached suddenly for hers. He held it for a long moment, and then, his eyes closing tight, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. 

The train ride back to her apartment felt surreal--as though it took her not only back to her home, but back to a world she’d unknowingly checked out of. 

It was when she closed her door behind her, letting her bag fall to the floor, that tears finally welled in her eyes. Everything that happened washed over her. The night with Erik and how it had gone wrong, of course, but also the show. The elation she’d felt on stage, the relief she’d felt when it was done. Raoul, charming and handsome as she remembered. She didn’t know exactly why she was crying, but it was like someone had thrown too many clothes in a suitcase and now the zipper wouldn’t shut. 

Christine decided a shower would clear her mind, and it did help. She felt less like an overwhelmed child as she stepped out, wrapping her hair in a towel. Throwing on a robe, she considered trying to sleep until she had to leave for afternoon rehearsals, but the beep of her answering machine grabbed her attention first.

She assumed it would be Meg, calling for a full run-down of the show, but instead it was Mr. Andre, one of the producers of _Beauty_. 

“Ms. Daaé, I’m afraid our Belle understudy has made the sudden decision to depart our production,” there were hushed whispers traded back and forth, one of which Christine recognized as Mr. Firmin. She heard snippets through the muffled receiver, “--you tell her--” and “--a _liability_ \--” spoken with increasing irritability. Finally, Mr. Andre’s voice returned clearly. “Anyway, we find ourselves in need of a replacement, and given your lovely performance and readiness to take on your role last night, my _colleague_ and I are hoping you’ll be able to arrive perhaps two hours earlier today, so that we might run through the show and ensure that you’re a good fit.”

Christine fell back onto her couch. Understudy for Belle. She should be ecstatic, but instead it felt like another pair of shoes stuffed into the suitcase, straining its seams. 

She picked up the phone, dialed a familiar number. The voice that greeted her was a cheerful balm on her troubled mind.

“Meg, are you free? Can we meet for lunch? Or, breakfast I guess. I have to go in to rehearsals early, but I just--I’d really like to talk.”

They met at a cafe a block from Christine’s apartment, and although she hadn’t eaten yet, she hardly touched the croissant on her plate. 

Meg started asking questions before she even sat down. “So, how did it go? Was everyone blown away? Does the show have any openings for dancers yet?” The last she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows, only half-serious. 

“I think they might be holding auditions later in the week, actually. I’ll get the details for you today.” Meg’s hands clasped together and she nodded excitedly. “Although I’m worried I shouldn’t. I’m starting to think the show is cursed.”

Christine laughed when she said it, but after the call from Mr. Andre this morning, her superstitious streak was rearing its gullible head again. 

“Cursed? Seems like it’s worked out pretty well for you so far.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda it. There was the girl who broke her ankle, and the dancer spot just opened up a couple nights ago, when one of the ensemble--Clara, I think?--said she kept hearing a strange voice in the wings, and then just up and quit, saying the theater was full of bad ‘energy’.”

“Alright, a _little_ weird, but--”

“--and _then_ I get a call this morning that Belle’s understudy quit suddenly and they want me to replace her--”

“Oh my god, Chris! That’s amazing! Way to bury the lede.”

“Yeah,” Christine shifted in her seat, trying to muster the smile that should, by all rights, be plastered across her face. “It’s an amazing opportunity.”

Meg closed her eyes and sighed. “Okay, tell me this is not another ‘oh boo hoo, this isn’t how I wanted to get the part’ thing, is it? They picked you! I mean, whatever happened with the understudy had nothing to do with you.”

Christine snorted. “No, it’s not that--or, at least it’s not all that. I _do_ feel kind of conflicted about getting the part that way, but… last night was just weird.”

“Weird how? Something go wrong with the show?”

“Not at all! The show was amazing. Everyone was so kind. Oh! I even ran into Raoul!”

Meg’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my _god_ , that little trust fund pretty boy. How is he? Still unbearably cute in that ‘kinda wanna slap him’ way?”

Chuckling, Christine made a show of pondering the question and then nodded. “To be clear, _I_ don’t feel any urge to slap him, but you absolutely would.”

“I recommend it sometime. Slapping men is great. Keeps ‘em on their toes and makes you feel like a troubled heroine in an old-timey movie. I love it.”

“How do you even find excuses to do all this man-slapping? Aren’t you usually busy chasing girls?”

“First of all, I’m happily taken at the moment, no chasing required, and second, you would be shocked by the number of straight men who completely fail to understand the concept of a gay bar and decide to get handsy.”

Christine rose her hands in surrender. “Alright, point taken. Completely justified slaps.”

“Eh, most of ‘em anyway.” Meg sat back in her chair. “So, you ran into Raoul. Was he in the audience?”

Shaking her head, Christine rolled her eyes. “Nope, or, not _just_ in the audience. He’s--get this--an investor.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“I know, I know. Still, it was nice to see him.”

“Well I’m sure he was… happy to see you.”

Christine narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. If he hadn’t transferred to that private school the two of you would’ve been prom royalty and probably have 2.5 kids and a diamond encrusted minivan by now.”

Christine chuckled. “You’re being dramatic. It was puppy love, that’s all. I’m sure he barely remembers me.”

Meg eyed her skeptically. “Uh-huh. Sure. Did he ask you out?”

“He may have mentioned getting drinks…”

“Oh yeah, he’s not interested at all. I’m sure those were purely platonic drinks he had in mind.”

“It’s possible!”

“Yeah, and my mom’s gonna give up ballet to run away and join the circus.” 

Christine could feel her cheeks reddening, but it wasn’t in embarrassment, not really. Meg had a way of getting her to laugh at herself that made Christine’s anxieties feel so much less insurmountable. 

“But you said the night got weird. You haven’t given me weird so far.”

Christine looked down, picking at her neglected breakfast. “Yeah. It um. You remember my voice teacher-slash-sex-line-guy?”

Meg’s eyes widened. “I do.”

“He showed up, right after Raoul, actually.”

“And...?”

“And he… took me back to his place?”

“Oh my _god_!” She studied Christine for a moment. “Okay, real quick, is this story going to end with me vowing to find out where he lives so I can murder him? I just feel like I should be ready for that, if that’s the conversation we’re having.”

“No! No, he um. He was a gentleman, mostly.”

Meg’s lips pursed, the beginning of a scowl creasing her brow. “Mostly?”

Christine shook her hands in front of her, clearing away the thought. “Okay, no, so. I went with him, we sang together a little, and then we kind of--I told him I wanted to--we had sex?”

The other patrons of the cafe turned their heads when Meg shouted. “What?!” Finding her last remaining reserves of decorum, she lowered her voice again. “Chris, you are just full of surprises today.” She set her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “How was it?”

Christine started blushing in earnest now, and lowered her voice just above a whisper. “The sex part--and, really, the singing too--was good. Like, _really_ good.” She bit her lip, remembering Erik’s strong hands on her as he lifted her onto the piano. “But afterwards is when it got. Weird.”

“Weird how?”

Christine opened her mouth to answer once, twice, and then crossed her arms to think. Meg looked on, clearly trying to be patient.

“Okay, so, backing up a little, he,” suddenly this whole story sounded ridiculous, but she forced herself to keep going, “he wears a mask.”

“A mask? Like… Batman?”

“No! No, it’s… it covers half his face, and I didn’t know why, but he was clearly pretty sensitive about it, so I didn’t push it. But then I, uh, I saw what was underneath, and he kind of flipped?”

Meg’s scowl returned. “Flipped how, exactly?”

“He just, like, got upset and ran out of the room. And then the next morning he said it was all a mistake. And I feel bad, but that’s kind of an overreaction, right?”

Meg nodded, somewhat absently. “So, what was it?”

“What was what?”

“What was under the mask?”

“Oh, I’m not even totally sure. Scarring, I guess? It almost looked painful. Maybe it is. I really didn’t see it for long before he took off.”

“Okay, yeah. I’m sorry I doubted you; your night definitely qualified as weird.” 

\---

When she got to the theater, an assistant shoved a folder of music into Christine’s hands and whisked her off to the stage. Mr. Firman, Mr. Andre, the director, and a few other members of the crew sat in the audience. They had her sing through a few songs, then try a few dialogue beats--a slight challenge with the assistant flatly reading the parts of her hypothetical scene partners. The producers and crew made comments among themselves, hardly acknowledging Christine as she waited for further instruction. 

“All right!” said Mr. Firman at last, “We don’t have the time for it today, but tomorrow we’ll have you do a run through with our Beast and Gaston. Make sure you know the part by then!”

Christine was stunned. Just like that, the day after her Broadway debut, she was an understudy for the lead. “Y-yes! Yes, sir! I’ll know it.”

Mr. Firman waved her away, and the assistant once again rushed her off, leading her this time to the wardrobe department, where they measured her, throwing different pieces of various costumes on over her clothes and generally treating her like a dress-up doll. 

As they were placing one of a dozen pairs of shoes on her feet, Carlotta burst into the room as she often did: like a force of nature. 

“My bodice is ruined! If I’ve told them once I’ve told them a dozen times, the locks on my dressing room need to be re--” She turned to look at Christine “--oh, you must be the new back-up.”

“I guess so?” Christine said. She’d found Carlotta Giudacelli intimidating at the best of times, and now she was standing over her, face red with frustration.

Carlotta scoffed. “Figures they would pick a new girl who doesn’t know any better. Well, word to the wise: keep an eye on your stuff. My dressing room keeps getting broken into, probably by some pervert,” she handed the torn bodice to one of the wardrobe ladies, “and our _generous_ producers won’t shell out the cash for improved security.”

“Oh, that sounds awful,” Christine muttered, feeling an uneasiness in her chest that almost felt like guilt, although she couldn’t explain why.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> far too many notes

Over the following weeks, Christine rehearsed her new part day and night. Sometimes with the cast, when time and scheduling would allow it, and the rest of the time pacing the limited square footage of her apartment, reciting lines and blocking until she dreamed about them.

With Erik, she would practice the songs, of course, him singing her opposite in the duets, and she found herself wishing more than once that he could share the stage with her. Over the phone his voice sounded so thin compared to hearing its full resonance in person.

Their lessons had been mostly professional since the night they’d spent together. She heard a certain raggedness in his voice at times, and she certainly wasn’t above imagining his hands, his mouth on her skin at the sound of it, but if he noticed the quickening of her breath or lapses in attention, he did not comment on it. 

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, near the end of one of their recent sessions.

“Have you?” She couldn’t read his tone, but it didn’t sound entirely discouraging, so she continued. 

“I think about your hands. I think of you playing the piano, your fingers on the keys… and on me.”

Erik inhaled, the breath hitching just enough that it could be heard through the receiver.

“Christine.” 

She frowned.

“You must focus. After your debut…” he trailed off, and she could swear he pulled the phone from his ear for a moment before continuing. “You must focus on this now.”

First she was annoyed. He was talking down to her like a child. What did he think of her, that a relationship--is that what she wanted?--hell, a little _sex_ was enough to make her lose focus on the one thing she’d been trying to do for years?

Then came a wave of regret. If he didn’t want to pursue that, for whatever reason, he didn’t have to. He didn’t owe her dirty talk or flirting or--even the voice lessons were still free, weren’t they? But _why_ would he deny them both something she was sure he wanted?

“I don’t think it’s my focus you’re worried about.”

Another pause. An exhale.

“Call me again tomorrow, Christine. Goodnight.”

Stifling her frustration, Christine returned the goodnight--softly, maybe a little coldly--and hung up.

\---

“Now, when are you going to let me take you out to dinner?”

Raoul leaned against the desk in the producers’ office while Mr. Andre and Mr. Firman were off harassing wardrobe about the price of fabric or complaining to the lighting techs about their inefficient use of expensive bulbs. 

Christine, standing in the final fitted version of her blue Belle dress, smiled at him. “Ask me again when you’re investing in some show that doesn’t have me in the playbill.”

He looked disappointed, but not entirely convinced.

“Seriously? It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m the one making casting decisions, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t need people--my colleagues--thinking that I get my parts that way. They already talk about the fact that we’re friends.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Raoul relented. “Alright, alright, but I’ll hold you to that. Let me know if you hear any leads on promising shows without any opportunities for beautiful young sopranos.” She laughed, and he smiled his charming smile and kissed her on the cheek before leaving the room, likely to save the crew from the meddling of Mr. Andre and Mr. Firman. 

\---

Christine didn’t need to show up early for once--she was finally deemed stage-ready as a back-up for Belle--but she decided to anyway so she and Meg could go in together. Meg--possibly due to some polite suggestion on Christine’s part--had finally gotten an audition for a dance part. Christine didn’t want to use her history with Raoul to advance her own career, but if she used it to get her friend’s foot in the door, that was forgivable, wasn’t it?

“You’re gonna blow them away. Seriously, don’t worry.”

“I feel like that’s my line. Since when am I nervous?” But nervous she was, and Christine watched as Meg continued wringing her hands to keep them from shaking.

“This is new for you, but like you said, ballet is _mean_. If you can handle your mom staring daggers at you you can handle our casting people no problem. Besides, you know Raoul will be in your corner.”

Meg looked unconvinced. 

“What? You two used to hang out!”

“We used to hang out with _you_ , any proximity we had to each other was just a side effect of that.”

“What? No…”

“Pretty sure he thought I was competition in his pursuit of winning your maidenly hand--not that he really knew _why_ at the time. If he’d ever actually confronted me about it I would’ve told him you were tragically straight.” She tipped her head, thought a moment. “Well, no. That’s what I’d tell him now. Then I would’ve just laughed at him.”

Blushing, Christine chuckled. “Well, I’m sure that’s all behind him. And besides, if he likes me as much as you claim, then he’ll know it’ll make me happy for you to land the gig.”

“Ugh, he does love to play the hero. Fingers crossed!”

Christine crossed them, and the two of them stepped into the theater. 

\---

Leaning against a wall as casually as possible, Christine stood outside the producers’ office while they discussed the auditions. Meg had already gone home, but she seemed in good spirits, so Christine held out hope. She gave up trying to make out what they were saying on the other side of the door after a few minutes, and instead just waited, hoping to get some kind of hint about their decision when they emerged. 

But before they could, a sudden flurry flew through the hallway in the form of Carlotta on a tear. She hardly acknowledged Christine before she barged through the door waving a piece of paper. 

“How many times do I need to tell you? The locks on my door need to be REPLACED!” Her powerful voice overwhelmed any objections there might have been to the interruption. “Someone has been breaking into my dressing room, and now they’ve left this!” She flung the paper onto the desk, and everyone inside looked down at it, their faces growing increasingly concerned. 

“Surely,” said Mr. Firman, clearly unsure as the words left his mouth, “this is some kind of joke.”

“A joke? Are you fucking serious? This is a threat! And I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”

Mr. Andre slid away from the group and gently closed the door as Christine looked on, wide-eyed. She could occasionally hear Carlotta’s voice rising above the rest, but otherwise everyone was so hushed she was again left in the dark.

Eventually, the group of them did filter out. Carlotta first, still fuming but at least less explosive now, followed by Mr. Andre and Firman. Finally, when Raoul stepped out, Christine touched his arm to get his attention. He turned, his face softening as he recognized hers.

“What was that about?”

“This,” Raoul sighed, and held out the letter. Christine looked it over, one hand rising to cover her mouth. Carlotta wasn’t being dramatic, it _was_ a threat. It said, in a precise, flowing script, that her time in the spotlight was over, and if she did not bow out gracefully, she would live to regret it. It never made a direct threat of violence, but the message was clear. 

“Oh my god. Raoul, what’s going to be done about it?”

He looked weary and shook his head. “Andre says there will be an ‘investigation’, whatever that entails, and Firman promised to have the locks ‘inspected’.”

“What about going to the police? Shouldn’t someone report this, or-- or something?”

“They’re worried about bad publicity. If they can deal with it internally it’s better for everyone. Besides,” Raoul leaned in, speaking now in a regretful whisper, “for all we know she wrote it herself.”

Christine blinked at him, startled by the implied accusation. “I don’t think--”

He shrugged, his hands settling on his hips. “Listen, I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be the wildest thing an actor has ever done for a little leverage during contract negotiations.” 

Carlotta, for all her bluster and fury, never struck Christine as a deceptive person. Quite the opposite; beneath her red-faced protestations, she saw what she believed to be genuine fear, and the thought that Raoul, that anyone might assume that she had brought this on herself somehow--it made Christine’s stomach turn. 

\---

The show that evening went off without a hitch. It was only after the curtain call that the entire company heard a familiar scream.

“What did I _TELL YOU_ , you incompetent, negligent, ineffectual--”

“Ms. Giudacelli!” shouted Mr. Andre. “What _is_ it?”

“My dressing room!”

Everyone nearby, including Christine, craned their necks to see what had gotten her so worked up, and, sure enough, it was like a hurricane had torn through the room. Furniture was overturned, costumes were damaged beyond recognition, and her personal belongings had been scattered throughout. 

“I’m done with this!” she cried, and pushed through the growing crowd. She locked eyes with Christine as she passed. “Enjoy your _starring role_ , sweetheart. Maybe that blonde boy who’s always making eyes at you will spring for security around here.”

\---

“Did I get it? You’d tell me if I got it, right?”

Christine laughed. Meg wasted no time, standing in her living room and gripping her coffee cup hard enough that Christine worried it would buckle and ruin her fashionably distressed overalls.

“I don’t know yet, and you know I wouldn’t be able to hold onto that information very long if I did.”

Meg sighed. “Fine. I guess I’ll be ‘patient’ or whatever.”

“Yeah, I don’t know when they’ll be making any decisions. It’s gotten kind of crazy...”

“Jesus, what happened now? Did a light fixture fall and take out a stage hand?”

“Don’t joke, at this point it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Your curse theory is sounding more reasonable by the day. What was it?”

“Someone’s been breaking into Carlotta’s--our Belle--her dressing room and like... messing with stuff. They left a creepy note and then later that night, during the show, someone must have broken into it and totally ransacked the place.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, so of course Carlotta’s scared, and angry because she’s been telling management that they need better security, so she just stormed out.”

“Wait…”

“So now I’m playing Belle… tonight?”

“Holy _shit_ , Chris!! This is it! You’re the lead!”

“I know!” A fresh wave of nerves flared up in her chest, but it was tempered by Meg’s ecstatic smile. “It’s amazing but, god, should I be worried?”

“About Carlotta’s scary stalker? Fuck, who knows. I’ll give you my pepper spray. You want me to meet you after the show?”

It was a sweet offer, but Christine knew how early Meg got up in the mornings. “No, no, I’m sure it’s fine.”

Meg eyed her. “Yeah, it sounds like this person was pretty fixated on _her_ , so you’re probably okay. Plus I’m sure _Prince Raoul_ would never let anything happen to his leading lady.” Meg batted her eyelashes in an impersonation of herself or Raoul, Christine wasn’t sure. 

\---

That afternoon in her dressing room, Christine held a letter in trembling hands. The handwriting--precise and beautiful--was the same as the note that had been left for Carlotta. 

_Christine,  
Your debut is at hand. The audience awaits you. Their applause will soon fill your ears, but I know you do not sing for them. Sing for me, Christine, and you will not falter._

Unlike Carlotta’s note, this letter had a signature which erased--for Christine, if no one else--all doubt of its author:

_Your Angel_

It was as though a boulder were dropped on her chest. Her breathing grew shallow and quick, her head swimming as she read and re-read the letter, hoping to realize she’d misunderstood, that it was anything but what she suddenly knew to be true.

She thought of Carlotta, of the understudy who had left so suddenly, of the girl who had broken her ankle. She thought of Erik, assuring her with all the confidence in the world that she would be the lead. 

For some time she remained like that. Trembling, thinking, until a steely calm came over her. She folded the letter and tucked it into her bag. She looked at the clock. Curtain wasn’t for two hours. There was time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations.

“I won’t do it.” said Christine, and Raoul stared back at her, clearly confused. He shot a look to the producers that seemed to say _I don’t know, but I’ll deal with it_.

“What do you mean you won’t do it? Christine, this is huge for you.”

“It’s not my part. It’s Carlotta’s.”

Mr Firman spoke up now. “Ms. Giudacelli has refused to go on. You’re the back-up. This is your _job_.”

“Call her. Tell her you’ll pay her more, or even better, tell her you’ll pay for security to protect the performers. Keep them safe. That’s _your_ job.” She looked at Raoul. “Don’t tell me you can’t afford it.”

He hardly seemed to recognize her, and Christine, in that moment, didn’t find it so upsetting. She was already too angry, even if it wasn’t with him.

“You don’t have anyone else. If you don’t want to refund your tickets, you’ll call Carlotta.”

Christine left, paying no mind to the objections of the three men as she did so.

\---

She’d looked over her shoulder as she stood at the payphone outside the theater and dialed a number her fingers knew by heart. 

“Christine?” Despite the anger that coursed through her veins, her resolve softened at the sound of his voice. She refused to let it reach her own.

“I got your note. Meet me at the theater.”

There was a pause, but Erik didn’t seem shaken. “I had planned to meet you afterwards. A surprise, to celebrate your success.”

“I’m not interested in surprises. Meet me at the theater, or I won’t go on.”

“Christine,” _now_ there was an unsteadiness in his voice, and she latched onto it. 

“I’ll quit. I’ll leave the show, and I’ll change my number if you don’t get here before curtain. Meet me by the stage door, like last time.”

\---

He met her, looking just as he did before in his tuxedo and hat, his plain white mask hiding half of his face from her. In the daylight the ensemble looked faintly ridiculous in a way it hadn’t that first night, but perhaps that had more to do with the scales falling from her eyes than anything objectively aesthetic. 

“I lied,” she said, looking down at him from the steps leading to the door.

“Christine?”

“I’m not going on tonight, maybe ever.”

He looked at her confused, upset, and then concerned. “You must. It’s your chance!”

“No, it wasn’t. It was never supposed to be.” Taking the letter from her bag, Christine held it out and descended the steps. “I don’t want it like this.”

She could turn back, open the door, shout for help. Tell whoever came that she found who was making threats and scaring performers. She could, but instead she said, “We have to talk, and I’m guessing you don’t want to do it here.”

\---

The way to his home was not dizzying this time. They rode in silence, and Christine thought there was something unsure in the way Erik held himself, the way he gripped the steering wheel, and she got some satisfaction from that. She recognized the streets they took, made note of the turns. When they reached his building she began calculating where she might run to if she needed to escape him. 

She shouldn’t be doing this here. She shouldn’t be doing this at all. She should have shown Raoul the letter, should have reported everything she knew, but--she couldn’t. Meg would kill her if--when she found out about how reckless she was being, but she didn’t want to bring this to anyone else. Maybe it was because she’d been foolish, because no one would understand how she’d been so taken in, but Christine didn’t feel foolish, not anymore. 

He pulled her inside, locking the door behind them. He stood close and spoke urgently. “You’re angry, perhaps frightened, but you needn’t be.” She gaped at him, disbelieving. “Stay with me, and you needn’t fear for anything. I will live to make you happy. I do!”

At this declaration, her fear, her calculation and caution, at once boiled over into rage. Christine felt helpless, and in that moment she wanted him to feel that, to reckon with it. 

She grabbed the mask and tore it from his face. He cried out, recoiled, holding his hand in its place. 

“Why!?” he screamed at her, and with his other hand against her collarbone he backed her into a nearby countertop. 

He overpowered her physically, but she didn’t relent, the fire she felt in her chest now spitting from her mouth. “You promised you would help me, and you ruined _everything_!”

“I was putting the world in order! You deserve to be on that stage, Christine. You, not Carlotta, not any of them. It was all for you.”

“For me?” She laughed, her eyes stinging with tears that threatened to fall. “I’m just an extension of you! If I’m on that stage then you are, too. And when the audience cheers, they cheer for you. It doesn’t matter if I got there because I deserve it, because so long as you can hide yourself away while _I_ perform, while _I_ shoulder the weight of the people you went through to put me there, it’s of no concern to you. Your performing doll gets her standing ovation and your sad, hungry ego gets its boost.”

Erik, though wounded, expressed it with the sharp edge of anger. The hand that covered his face fell into a clenched fist at his side. His upper lip curled. “What do you have without me?” he grabbed her arm, just on the edge of too hard, “The same that I have without you,” He squeezed, and his voice dropped to a sigh. “Nothing.”

Tears did fall then, anger and hurt forcing a sob from Christine’s lungs. “You said you would never hurt me, Erik.”

His eyes grew wide, and he released her arm as though it shocked him. He took two, three steps back, looking with betrayal to the hand that gripped her. “No, no, I--” He rubbed at his temples. “I never want to hurt you, Christine. I couldn’t!”

“You _did_.” She took a step towards him, and he all but cowered at her approach. “You got everyone out of the way. You threatened Carlotta, you--you broke that girl’s ankle, didn’t you? Tampered with her shoes, or--” He did not meet her eyes. “You frightened the dancers and you cleared a path for me, all without asking, without any concern for me or anyone else. That _hurt_ me.”

His face twisted in anguish. His full weight fell against the wall at his back, hands smoothing over his jacket, rubbing at the back of his neck, unable to find purchase, unable to stop moving as his eyes shut tight. “No…” he muttered quietly, wretchedly.

Christine studied him, no longer sensing--perhaps naively--any threat in the man before her. “Why did you run from me when I saw your face?”

He curled in on himself, like the question was an arrow in his chest.

“I know how I look. I could not bear to see your face as you realized the man you’d envisioned was nothing but a fantasy. I fear I still cannot bear it.”

“Your face wasn’t what I--what I fell for. You shattered that fantasy with what you _did_ , Erik.”

Looking at the floor, Erik nodded, the smallest tilt of his head. “You are beautiful, Christine” he said, and she looked at him incredulously. “You have not been looked upon as I have. It’s the pity in their eyes. When it’s not disgust, or revulsion, it is that, and I find it just as intolerable. The kind of affection one gives in pity is the sort given to children. To animals. I am not a person to be desired.”

She stared at him. She didn’t know what it was that made her close the distance between them. Or perhaps in this moment, after all he had done, it felt too absurd to name. Regardless, she reached out to him, taking one searching hand in hers. He looked up at her, his body tense as though he might lash out, or run, just as soon as collapse. 

“I am angry with you. I am _hurt_. But I do not pity you, Erik.”

It _was_ foolish, she knew it, but it was the only thing her body knew to do in that moment, his face so close to hers, so clearly searching for _something_ that would drown out whatever swirled in his mind. 

She pressed her lips to his, and he froze. Her other hand rose to press against the uneven flesh of his cheek, and he leaned into her. His own hands finally found their purchase as he clutched at her, holding on as if to prove she was really there, and solid, and--somehow--kissing him.

As the heaving of his chest lessened, she pulled back. “I’m a lot more than nothing without you.” She cupped his smooth cheek, and he stared back at her, steadied. “And you are more than nothing without me.” 

There was wetness in the corners of his eyes as he looked at her, and he squeezed them shut. “I’ve ruined everything. Christine I--” The palm of his hand swept across his face, clearing any tears that might have fallen. “--I thought--I _hoped_ that if you--if I could _make_ you successful, make you the star you should be, that you might,” He held his hand over the scarred side of his face, and let it slowly fall away, “see past the fantasy.”

“I didn’t want the fantasy. I wanted you, singing in my ear, teaching me,” her hand found his, weaving their fingers together, “touching me.”

He stiffened, and Christine tilted his head so that he looked at her. 

Taking a stuttering breath, Erik spoke like it hurt him. “You should go. I can’t--you shouldn’t be here at all, I should never have presumed--”

“Erik,” she put her hand on his chest. “I’m so--I’m so _fucking_ mad at you.” He closed his eyes, resigned. “But I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t--”

“No. If you really want me to go, tell me, but if you’re just saying it so you can feel sorry for yourself, then I’m staying.”

He searched her face, disbelieving and without words, so Christine pulled him by the lapels to the living room. He followed, unsure but trusting. When they stood next to the sofa she’d slept on that first night, Christine slid the jacket off his shoulders. Erik let it happen, pulling his arms out and letting it fall. She pushed him gently backward until he sat on the firm cushions. 

“What…”

Dropping slowly into his lap, her knees planted on either side of his hips, Christine leaned down to speak into his ear. “Does this look like pity? Does it feel like it?”

Erik moaned, something high and helpless in his throat, and oh, Christine liked that. It wasn’t composed or musical or anything she associated with him, and knowing she’d drawn it out of him--the man who could set her skin alight with a well sung note--was exhilarating. 

She placed her hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the sofa, and let her hips slide over his lap experimentally. Their clothing was thick enough that the feeling was only a hint, a tease for her, but the friction was good and she kept at it, seeing Erik’s eyes widen as he watched her. 

Christine tugged at his tie until it fell loose around his neck, moving then to the buttons at his collar. Continuing the movement, the teasing grind in his lap, her fingers traced the lines of his neck, his collarbone. Still he looked at her, unmoving, his breath hitching at the weight and the feel of her moving against him, or the touch of skin on skin--maybe both, maybe all of it.

She leaned in and kissed him again, and this time he seemed to melt into it, not pushing back exactly, but falling. 

A part of Christine wanted more, wanted to tear his clothes off and show him just how much she didn’t pity him. She wanted to slap him and put her mouth on him and have him inside her all at once, but the look on his face when she broke the kiss--pained and pleading, overwhelmed and disbelieving--was better than the thoughts that sent shocks of need through her abdomen. 

She ground down on him harder, and was rewarded by the expanse of his neck as his head fell back. She ducked to kiss it, feeling the pulse, quick and thrumming, on her lips. Her teeth grazed the tender skin, and it was then he finally made a move to touch her back, his hands squeezing her thighs so hard it might have hurt if she wasn’t already aching for him. 

“Trust me,” she whispered in his ear, “trust me not to run.”

He clutched at her, his hands all but clawing at her back, his hips rising to meet hers in an increasingly frantic rhythm. His breath came in gasps and poorly stifled moans, and Christine only encouraged it, riding him with abandon even as he cried out.

“Ah--Oh, Christine, I--” and he held her flush against him, so firm she no longer moved, and shuddered against her shoulder.

He stayed like that a moment, two, and then drew back, looking up at her. “I’m sorry, I--”

Eyes widening as realization dawned on her, Christine looked down between them. “Did you just--oh,” and she smiled.

Erik immediately turned sheepish, his eyes directed anywhere but her. “This is all--new. To me. I… Before the first night I brought you here I hadn’t been--” 

“You hadn’t… been with anyone?” Christine tried not to look incredulous, but surely-- “You seduce people for a living.”

Her fingers grazed his collarbone, and he seemed to regain some composure as he met her eyes again. “I learned... that people could be attracted to my voice. My words. But my face,” he paused, eyes flickering down at a memory, perhaps more than one, “as I said, revulsion or pity, neither of which make good bedfellows when you’re, well, bedding someone.”

Christine let her fingers trail up his neck, his jaw. She traced the planes of his face, both smooth and uneven, studying him. 

“Well, don’t apologize. I’m not done with you yet.” 

The barest hint of a smile, hopeful and questioning, tugged at his mouth. “No?”

“Not even close,” she said, and pressed one more kiss, too light and too quick, to his lips before climbing off of him. He moved to follow, but she put a hand on his chest and leveled a look that, she hoped, said _stay_. 

She stood just out of reach and looked him over, openly evaluating what she saw. He looked disheveled in a way Christine found satisfying. “Take off your shirt.”

His body tensed at the request, almost imperceptibly, but his shoulders relaxed as he finished opening the buttons Christine had started. He gazed up at her, pulling one arm free, then the next, and tossed the shirt away from him. 

Hands dropping to her waist, Christine didn’t break their eye contact as she opened the fly of her pants and tugged them, along with her underwear, down her hips. She stepped out of them and towards Erik. She felt incredibly exposed, despite knowing that he at least had seen this much before, perhaps paradoxically more-so for the fact that she still wore her shirt, the hem just brushing her hip bones. She thought of removing it too, but held off for the moment, enjoying their little game of undressing tit-for-tat. Erik still looked like someone doubtful of his own reality as she raised her knee, planting one foot beside his thigh on the couch cushion, but now at least he seemed more apt to enjoy this fantasy while it lasted. 

His hand grazed her ankle, traveling lightly up her calf and trembling so slightly at the effort. 

“Can I?” he asked, low and hopeful.

“I wish you would.”

Erik’s fingers continued their trek, splayed as they traveled up her thigh, their touch so light it tingled, drawing a little sound from Christine’s throat. That sound seemed to encourage him, and he smiled--again a tentative, careful thing--up at her when he reached the place where her thighs met. 

Christine’s eyes fell shut as he grazed her folds, tickling at the softly curling hair. After a few teasing passes, his fingers began to _press_ , and it took a good deal of Christine’s composure not to grab his hand and take more--but no, she wanted him to do it, wanted him to use that musician’s dexterity to its full potential, for her. 

So instead she only sighed, “Erik…” hoping to coax it from him. 

His fingers swirled in circles around her clit, spreading her own wetness around and increasing their pressure until Christine let out another moan. Her hips moved in time with him, and she reached out in want of something to hold onto, her hands landing on either side of his head, her thumbs brushing over his scalp, both scarred and smooth. 

He kept it up until she was gasping, so close to the edge, and then one finger slid inside her, easy and slick. She cried out and looked down to see him gazing up at her, focused so intently, studying her face, and Christine made no attempt to hide what she felt. Erik’s fingers were thicker than hers, stronger too, and they were curling inside her like she was a song he’d played countless times before. 

And the thought of him imagining her--dreaming of this the way she had dreamt of him--sent a thrill--one streaked with guilt--through her chest. He’d imagined this, believed he couldn’t have it--not really--and he’d done terrible things to earn it. Christine didn’t want to want a man who would do those things, but the feel of him, the sound of his moans and the hungry look in his eyes when he glanced up--they overpowered her guilt with selfishness, with an urge to let him have what he’d wanted so badly because she wanted it too. 

“Oh--” she breathed it, a whisper from deep in her chest, “ _please_.”

Again responding well to encouragement, Erik ducked his head and put his mouth on her, his fingers still moving and curling inside. His tongue wasted no time, licking and circling with an intensity that nearly overwhelmed her. She gripped his head now to steady herself, feeling like if he pulled away she’d collapse like a building losing its foundation. When her fingers flexed on his scalp Erik let out a groan that Christine could _feel_ through her body, and after a few more deft swipes of his tongue she finally cried out as the wave of her orgasm crashed over her. 

She held him there for a long moment, catching her breath and savoring the aftershocks. When she did pull his head back, his mouth and chin were shining wetly, obscenely. He looked drunk on it, but still so hungry, and Christine almost wanted to pull him back to her, making him do it again, even though she wasn’t sure if she’d even get off a second time, still recovering from the first. 

Instead she ducked her head and kissed him, first on the forehead, the cheek, and then met his wet, shining mouth with hers. 

Still bent over him, Christine reached down to slip two fingers into the waistband of his fine black pants and give them a tug. “I think it’s time to get rid of these...” The back of her hand grazed over the fly, feeling the tell-tale sign of a returning erection pressing back against her. “...if you’re up for it.”

Erik nodded and opened his pants, wincing only slightly at the shifting of the sticky fabric. Christine stood upright again as he lifted his hips to remove his pants completely, leaving them forgotten on the floor at their feet. 

She stole a glance downward, the lines of his abdomen leading her eye to a patch of thick, curling hair and the stiffening length between his legs. A fleeting thought struck her, that this was almost easier with the blindfold. Easier to reach out and touch without the full truth of it, of him, of them before her eyes. 

But she didn’t want to shy away from it. She wanted to see all of him, no more wool over her eyes, and know that her feelings were based on more than what he had dared to show her that first night. 

Christine dropped to her knees and slid her hands up his bare thighs. Erik’s eyes were wide when she looked up, and wider still when she reached out and touched--experimentally, using the barest tips of her fingers--that length which now pulsed back to life.

She wrapped her hand around it, eliciting a sigh from Erik. Sliding up, then down the shaft, Christine appreciated how helpless he looked with his cock in her hand. 

“Talk to me,” she said, leaning in. “Tell me how much you want this.”

Swallowing, Erik looked at her, his eyes darting from her hand to her face and back again. “I--god, Christine--I dreamt of this. You’re so--” And it was _nothing_ like their phone conversations had been. All of his self-assurance, his commanding, seductive presence had fallen away, and instead he was so desperate for her, aching so badly, that his voice was a trembling, stilted thing. 

Still, the timbre of it was the same, and hearing it was a tease on Christine’s skin, a caress that begged another.

“Tell me,” she said, and Christine lowered her head, taking the tip of his length into her mouth.

Erik gasped like it hurt him, but before Christine pulled back he followed it up with a groan of such longing relief that she instead took more of him. 

She looked up at him, raising her eyebrows as if to say “well?”, and there was a brief flash of confusion on his face before he processed her request, breathing out, “Ah--Christine I dreamt of this nightly, I--” He reached out and put his fingers in her hair, holding it like he needed to touch it to know it was real. “I thought of you here when we spoke, imagined our lessons in person, your perfect mouth forming perfect notes from your perfect throat.”

Christine moaned around the length in her mouth as his voice filled her ears. It danced on her skin as her hand stroked him where her mouth didn’t reach. His scent was heavy and masculine, his voice low and ragged, and Christine wanted very badly to reach down with her free hand and--no, better idea.

Dragging her tongue along the underside of his cock one final time, Christine lifted her head. “Where are the condoms?”

“Uhm,” Erik blinked, clearing his mind, and then pointed towards the bathroom. “Bottom drawer on the right. I can--” but as he leaned forward, Christine put her hand on his chest. 

“You stay right here.”

She fetched the condoms, tearing a couple of the little square packets off of the strip of them. 

She stood over him again, and tore open one of the packets. She examined the little disc of latex, and then kneeled again, trying to remember demonstrations she’d seen involving bananas. As she rolled it down his length, Erik’s hips seemed to jump of their own volition, chasing Christine’s touch. 

She straddled him again, like before, but so much more urgent now, the layers of fabric that teased them having been stripped away. She hovered, not lowering herself onto him, even though the desire was written as plain on his face as she was sure it was on hers. Instead, her fingers curled around the hem of her shirt and peeled it off over her head. She unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor. Erik’s hands traveled up her waist until they cupped her breasts. A thumb grazed her nipple, making Christine sigh, and Erik pinched it softly. He leaned in, taking the other in his mouth, hungry and wet, his teeth sending gentle sparks over her skin. 

Christine adjusted herself until the tip of his cock pressed against her entrance, and--god, even that felt right. Part of her wanted to stretch this out, his hands and mouth on her, and Christine ready--so ready--to take him but not doing it yet. 

“Christine…” his words muffled against her skin, “please, please--”

And she hadn’t known it, but _that_ was what she’d been waiting for. At the sound of his plea, she lowered herself onto him, taking him completely in one painfully slow, smooth motion. 

Erik all but froze, his head falling back as she began rising and falling, savoring the drag and pressure where their bodies met. 

She gripped his shoulders for leverage and began moving in earnest, a fresh pleasure blooming inside her each time they were flush against each other. She cried out, high and not especially musical, but Erik groaned and pulled her to him, kissing her throat as if to worship it. 

She wasn’t sure how long she reveled in that worship, but eventually she leaned back, still working his cock in and out of her. She held onto the back of his neck now, her thumbs brushing his jawline. Already so close, Christine dropped one of her hands and touched herself, her sensitive flesh slick and aching for it. 

“Erik…” she whined, and he held onto her waist with firm hands, his hips rising now, plunging into her as her fingers grew faster, increasing their pressure more, _more_ , until--

She cried out with a “ _Yes_ ” that became a wordless moan as her orgasm, the ceaseless pounding wave of it, hit her, overwhelming and all-consuming for a few blinding moments.

She slumped forward against him, little sounds escaping her throat as she caught her breath. He held her, his arms coiling around her, his fingers tangling in her long hair where it tumbled down her back. He still moved himself inside her, but stuttering and shallow, like he wanted to let her recover but couldn’t entirely stop himself.

“Mmm,” she breathed against his ear, “keep going.”

His arms still around her, he squeezed tighter and shifted them so that Christine was now laying back on the couch and Erik was over her, one of his legs braced on the floor. His thrusts started slow, but soon grew desperately fast, his arms hooking under her knees so he might bring her to meet them. To Christine, still pleasure-drunk and loose-limbed, it felt like a dream, like an instant stretched to hours but always happening _now_ , and all she could think to do was meet the tortured, agonizingly well-placed thrusts and gasp wordlessly. 

“Oh god--Christine!” Erik’s eyes squeezed shut and he crashed into her a final time, deep and hard and holding her tight against him. She felt him shudder, heard the air rushing from his lungs as he held himself in place, reluctant to pull away yet.

She reached out, pulling him down by the neck, and kissed him as he began to soften inside her. 

He reached down, cringing slightly as he pulled out of her and then peeled the condom off. He reached over her head for a handful of tissues, burying the offending latex in them and dropping it on the floor to deal with later. They laid there a while, a tangle of satiated limbs, lightly stroking one another and sharing pleased sighs at the touch. 

Erik paused, his thumb brushing over Christine’s cheek.“I don’t deserve this after--after what I’ve done.”

She traced a finger over the asymmetrical curve of his mouth, and then held it there. “I don’t care what you deserve. I’m here because I want to be, and because you want it too.”

“Of course I do, but how can--”

“No. Don’t give me that self-pity. Don’t give me your guilty conscience. I just want you.” He blinked at the wetness pooling in his eyes, but didn’t look away. “I don’t want the angel who hid from me behind a mask, and notes, and terror. I want you, Erik.”

He buried his face in her neck, holding her like something delicate and impossibly precious.

Eventually they stood, and washed themselves up, and Erik led Christine to the bedroom. They laid on their sides, Erik at her back with his arms around her. Before drifting to sleep, only one thought troubled Christine, everything else thoroughly cleared away, for the time being at least.

How on _earth_ was she going to explain this to Meg?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda.

Some weeks later, Christine walked along with Meg on her way to rehearsals. Christine didn’t have anywhere to be, newly re-unemployed as she was, but Meg was still learning the choreography in _Beauty_ , and she took great pride in her punctuality--a trait ingrained in her by her mother. 

“So, have you told her yet?” Christine asked, trying to make it sound casual and not utterly and horrendously terrifying. 

“Ughhh, no. I think she thinks I’ve joined a cult or something.”

“Oh, well that should soften the blow at least. A good news/bad news type situation. ‘Hey mom, I’m not in a cult, but I am doing a slightly different version of the thing you’ve been training me to do my whole life...’”

Meg snorted. “I wouldn’t be so sure that ‘brainwashed into a cult’ falls that much lower on the ‘My daughter is a disappointment to me’ scale than ‘gave up ballet for some other Lesser Dance’. Doing the math, it might work out about even.”

Christine gave her a friendly bump on the shoulder. “Hey, I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit. Maybe she’ll be disappointed, but she loves you. She’ll get over it.”

“I think I’m gonna try to get her tickets to my first show. Like, maybe if she _sees_ me up there, actually doing it, it’ll be harder for her to dismiss it.”

She imagined Mrs. Giry, straight-backed and stern-faced taking in the whimsical tale of Beauty and the Beast, and let out a giggle. 

“It’s not _that_ ridiculous.”

“No, no,” Christine shook her hand, waving it away, “it’s a good idea. I think she’ll like seeing you up there, even if she has trouble admitting it.”

“Yeah, and at least that way she still gets to give me notes afterward.” Meg rolled her eyes, but she wasn’t actually irritated. Christine could tell she was feeling a little lighter.

“Are you sure you’re not interested in coming back? Carlotta still needs a reliable understudy, and I mean, I’m sure Mom would like seeing you up there, too.”

Christine shook her head. It was a sweet thought, but they’d been through this. 

“There’s just too much baggage,” she said, and looked down at the sidewalk.

“But _they_ don’t know that. As far as the producers, the cast--hell, even Raoul--are concerned, you walked out to insure a safer environment for your coworkers. Now they probably want you back so you won’t go blabbing about all the shit that was going wrong there before they actually beefed up security.”

“But _I’d_ know that wasn’t what really happened, and how could I face everyone knowing that it was because of me--”

“Hey, you didn’t ask for any of that,” Meg interrupted.

“No, I know, but,” she ran her hands through her hair, pushing it out of her face. “It’s not like I ran to the cops as soon as I found out about it. Jesus, I’m still seeing the guy.” 

“Don’t think you have to remind me.” Meg peered at her sideways. “Is that still going alright? No signs of latent dangerous obsessive behavior lurking beneath the surface?”

Christine smiled, shaking her head, and god--it _was_ weird. It had taken a _while_ for Meg to come around on the idea, after Christine had told her, well, nearly everything. First she wanted to show up at Erik’s house with a baseball bat, then she wanted Christine to file a police report, then Christine was pretty sure she seriously considered an intervention, but eventually she grew to--if not _accept_ it exactly--to at least tolerate it until such a time that she could find it in herself to trust Erik not to fuck up so completely again, or she could show up with that baseball bat, whichever came first. 

“It’s been good! I’ve got an audition this week, and he’s been helping me prepare for it.” Raoul had tipped her off about the opening in another show. She’d been skeptical of the help, but he swore up and down that he hadn’t engaged in any untoward string-pulling, and so Christine had taken the information, and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Ooh,” Meg’s eyes widened with excitement, “an audition? You nervous?”

Christine thought for a moment and then, because it was true, she said, “Not really? I feel like I’ve got the songs down solid, and I think I can act the part well enough, and if not? I’ll get the next thing.”

“Listen to you, Ms. Easy Breezy Confidence over here. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

“We can only hope.” As they neared the theater, Christine began to slow, knowing she didn’t want to go inside and run into anyone. 

“So, any word on when I get to meet the mystery man?”

Christine sighed. “He’s shy. I’m working on it. Maybe we’ll come see you in a show sometime.” 

Squinting skeptically, Meg paused on the steps. “You better.” She pulled her hair back into a short and somehow artfully messy ponytail. “Anyway, this guy can’t be all terrible if he’s at least making a dent in your audition nerves. Even if I’m a little offended that apparently all of _my_ pep talks over the years have apparently been so lacking.”

Christine chuckled, knowing full well that without Meg’s pep talks she’d still be living down the street from her high school and dreaming about being on stage. “There is one thing.”

Meg turned as she opened the door. “Shoot.”

“Do you think I could pull off blonde?”

Meg scrunched up her face and inhaled through her teeth. “Hmm,” she hummed, pointedly not answering. “Gotta go!” and she disappeared inside.

Christine laughed and continued down the sidewalk.

\---

“Which songs would you like to focus on today?” 

Erik had let her in, taking the tea she’d brought him from one of her favorite cafes with a warm smile. He hardly wore his mask around her anymore, and even his clothing had finally gotten more casual, usually opting for a neutral button down shirt with a pair of decent black trousers instead of a tuxedo. It was certainly less formal, but Christine still found herself wondering if the man had ever owned a t-shirt. If she showed up early enough she might catch him in his bathrobe, which was something at least.

“I was thinking we could run through Heart Full of Love again?” She put down her bag and strode into the living room. 

“Again? Are you feeling unsure about it?” Despite his questioning, Erik sat at the piano, flipping through his music until he found the piece. “I think it’s one of your best, in this show at least.”

“Oh, I feel pretty good about it, but you can never be too careful with that note at the end, and,” she sat down next to him on the bench, watching as his eyes studied the music--always so seriously, “I like singing it with you.”

At that he looked back at her, just the slightest color rising in his cheeks along with the bare hint of a smile. 

“I suppose that’s a perfectly acceptable reason.”

“In your professional opinion? As my tutor?” She teased.

His eyes leveled with hers, playing along. “Exactly.”

Erik straightened his back and began playing the opening bars, his voice soon joining in. She liked songs where his part of a duet started first. Selfishly, she got to have the pleasure of his voice before she had to worry about her own, but beyond that, there was something about the backdrop of his singing that made hers feel more vibrant, more alive in her throat. Christine believed now--she _knew_ \--that she was good at what she did, and stages did not frighten her as they did before, but still, to her ear, her voice was never more clear--more true--than when she sang with Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this one! If, for some reason, you find yourself wondering how this fic came to be, wonder no longer. It's the result of my friend (Hi Melanie), showing me this ( https://66.media.tumblr.com/b454e36c6717af5f49f16fd557fe480a/74fbbc3f606db6f1-20/s400x600/899db65ba264b3b25bff2a84266f2cdc54a49c0f.jpg ) advertisement and us joking that "The Phantom Awaits Your Pleasure" followed by a phone number sounded more like a sex line than a musical, and well! Then it spiraled. May you get as much joy from the Phantom pleasure bus as I have. 
> 
> Also, I drew a little picture of 90s Erik and Christine and posted it on my Phantom twitter ( https://twitter.com/theoperacoast/status/1296239170856263680 ) just 'cause! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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